The Workhouse
by olehistorian
Summary: AU period piece in which Elsie Hughes leaves service at a Yorkshire estate to take care of her sister then meets Charles Carson in Downton where she is employed at a local hotel. Soon, circumstances force her into the workhouse where Charles is Master. Life and romance ensue. Prev. published in part on Tumblr but newly revised. Rating subject to increase. Most DA characters appear
1. Chapter 1: Elsie

Chapter One: Elsie Hughes

Elsie Hughes should be accustomed to January in Yorkshire by now. It's her tenth year in the county but she's never gotten used to the cold dampness that meets her when she swings the door open to leave the servant's hall of Parkside Hall. Even though her one indulgence is a new, warm winter coat and pair of nice fitting gloves, these do little to keep the biting cold from numbing her cheeks as she makes a brisk walk into the village or to church with the rest of the servants. Though a young woman of twenty-eight, the freezing temperatures of her attic room in the servant's quarters cause her very bones to ache. No matter, the number of blankets she covers herself with or the thick cotton of her nightgown and dressing gown wrapped around her, she seems to never warm up enough to get a good night's sleep. Even at home in Scotland when the nights were cold and the snow fell in sheets so blindingly thick that she couldn't see the bearn, her Da kept the fire stoked, and she had little sister Becky to keep her warm. But there's no fireplace in her drafty attic room and she doesn't share a bed with her younger sister anymore. Still she has it better than many. She has a roof over her head, three meals a day, clothes on her back, and job security.

Elsie left her father's farm at Argyll when she was sixteen. Her mother had insisted that she go, that she not wear out her body and waste her youth on farm work. Margaret Hughes was insistent that her elder daughter, fair-skinned and lovely, not be caught in the cog that was an uncertain tenancy. A tenancy that the local laird could withdraw from one year to the next. She insisted that Elsie not worry over whether a crop would make it to harvest or whether the new calf would be stillborn or worse yet, lose its mother while she's struggling to bring it into the world. The loss of a milk cow would devastate the Hughes's farm and if the crop failed to produce, they could ill afford to replace the her. Margaret didn't want her daughter to count every penny and then count them again, hoping to find a miscounted cent in the hopes that she could afford that new pair of shoes that child so desperately needed only to just patch them. Again.

Margaret insisted that Elsie find her way in the world away from the farm, away from babies that would come every two years until she could no longer bear them; one in her belly, another on her hip, while yet another clung to her skirts. She wanted her daughter, who was whip smart, a bright student according to Mr. Graham the local teacher, to make a life in a city perhaps as a shop girl or maybe working her way up as housekeeper in a fine manor house. She wanted Elsie to acquire a set of skills so that she could support herself or catch a husband who worked in a factory or owned a shop. Her daughter deserved the best. Elsie deserved the best life could afford her.

"Elsie, may I see you for a moment please."

"Of course, Mrs. Corbin."

Mrs. Corbin, Parkside Hall's Housekeeper, has been especially good to Elsie since she first arrived as a housemaid rising through the ranks and now as head housemaid. She'd immediately noticed the young woman's work ethic and attention to detail, the way she commands the respect of the younger women and how she refuses to tolerate any foolishness from the footmen who cast a lascivious glance or speak unsavory words to her or any of the girls under her care. Mrs. Corbin plans to retire soon. She's already put in a word for Elsie with Her Ladyship.

"Have a seat Elsie," the older woman offers kindly indicating for Elsie to take a seat in the chair nearest her. Elsie complies but by now knows Sarah Corbin well enough that though she seems composed, there is sadness behind her kind eyes and so Elsie steels herself for what the housekeeper is about to tell her.

Mrs. Corbin holds two identical envelopes and passes one to Elsie.

Elsie turns over the envelope to see that the postscript is stamped "Argyll" and that if Mrs. Corbin has received one as well, it only means one thing. Her stomach sinks with the same bottomless feeling that she felt that day years ago when the one of the farm hands came running to the house to tell them that her father had dropped dead in the fields.

"Your mother is gravely ill, my dear. I have discussed it with Her Ladyship and we've agreed that you must go home immediately. Mr. West will arrange your ticket."

Pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of her pristine white apron to dab at the corner of her eyes, Elsie can scarcely take in the notion that her mother, a woman who has always been such a pillar of strength, the one who had tried to hold the farm together after her husband died, has taken ill. Margaret Hughes had clawed and scraped with everything in her to keep the farm going until the landlord forced her off the land. Never one to be defeated, she moved into a small cottage the next village over to be near her brother, and takes in other people's laundry for a small fee. Elsie sends home money every month but her mother never accepts much, always telling Elsie that she needs it more. She has almost single-handedly cared for poor simple-minded Becky; Elsie's sister who was born under duress, born blue, and with the cord wrapped tightly around her neck. Becky is a kind soul, but a child in a woman's body and prone to outbursts, prone to periods of silence, and melancholy. Yet Margaret never pities herself. She is a mother; the care of her child is not a sacrifice.

In all the letters that they have exchanged, Elsie's mother hasn't let on a thing. Elsie feels a pang of anger that her mother has lied to her.

"Are you all right, Elsie?" Mrs. Corbin is such a concerned and caring woman; a second mother in many ways. Only that she isn't is she? Elsie hopes to take the woman's place one day when she retires; they've spoken of it and Elsie hopes to be like her - kind, patient, demanding.

A benevolent dictator.

"Yes," she replies quietly as she clutches the envelope to her chest. "If you don't mind I'll go up now."

"Of course. Lavinia will take over your duties today and if you like I'll have her bring a tray to your room."

"Thank you, but I'd like to have supper with the rest of the staff." While her words are resolute, stubborn event, her voice wavers, but Mrs. Corbin doesn't press her and doesn't order her to bed to recover from such distressing news. For she knows that her protégée knows her own mind.

When Elsie has excused herself, and made her way up the long winding staircase to her attic rooms, she closes the door behind her and presses her back against it. She sighs deeply and then feels the shock of hearing that her mother is dying build into an unbearable pain. The pain of losing her father was one thing, but losing her mother is something entirely different. Entirely unexplainable.

Sinking to the floor, Elsie holds the envelope in her hands and after what seems an age finally slides a fingernail under the flap to open it. Trembling fingers free the letter and she unfolds it to see the distinctive scrawl of her Uncle Rab.

2 June 1890

Dear Elsie,

My dear niece after having received your letter of the 19th I had hoped to return the good cheer of your sentiments with my next letter however, my writing finds that I must inform you of a sadness that has befallen our family. Your dear mother, my beloved sister Margaret, has fallen gravely ill. I know that she has not mentioned this in her letters and she did not wish for me to mention it to you, but I feel I must break my confidence with her. She is suffering from cancer and Dr. Lloyd informed me that he suspects the time is drawing near that she will join your dear father. If you wish to see her I suggest that you come at once.

With fondness,

Your Uncle Rab

Elsie's tears flow in earnest now. She weeps for her mother. She cannot imagine her mother wracked in chills and gasping for breath, her body twisted in pain. She cannot envision her strong, stout mother wasting away in the back room and the thoughts of hearing the death rattle filling the small stone cottage that she and Becky were forced into cause her to curl into a ball like a new borne babe on the floor.

She weeps for poor Becky who is so like a child. Elsie wonders if Becky will register what the death of their mother will mean. If she knows that it will mean that even though they are grown women, they will be orphans. That there will be no parents left to comfort them, to give solace when times are hard. No mother to comfort her when thunderstorms rage. No mother to hold her and sing her favorite lullabies when she cannot sleep.

Elsie weeps for herself. For the years, she's spent away from home even though her mother insisted that she get away from farm life and make a life of her own. Elsie weeps for the time she's missed with her mother, the good years, when her mother was young and vital. The years when they could have laughed and shared memories. Oh, Elsie visits. On the week that she is granted every year while the family is in London. When the three Hughes women, laugh, bake shortbread, and tell stories of the old days when Da was alive. When Becky begs her not to return South.

Now, they will share Margaret's worst days. Her last days.


	2. Chapter 2: Charles

Chapter Two

Charles

Master of Downton Workhouse.

This is not the life that Charles Carson excepted; spending his days herding people through the front gates of Downton Workhouse and then cataloguing the poor souls by their age, marital status, previous employment, and whether they've have retained their sanity or if they ever had any to begin with. The whole process makes him think of the days when he helped his father herd His Lordship's horses into the barn after a day of exercising them.

His position is one of great responsibility; responsibility not only for the operation of the facility but for the welfare of his charges. He is their keeper, their employer, their priest, and their advocate. It fills him with great sadness that rules force him to separate families; mothers from children, and husbands from wives. Just because they've fallen on hard times doesn't mean that they cease to be people. People with feelings. Society, he laments has stripped them of dignity couldn't it leave their families intact? But the laws are what they are and it is his obligation to follow them to the letter.

Charles is the one who sends the "inmates" – the word leaves a bitter taste on his tongue every time he says it - out into the streets to find work only to see some of them come back later that night. There are the drunks who spend the few pennies they have on a dram and then file back through the gates before the sun sets. And then there are those who return weeks later having not been able to improve their situations at all. He knows that some of them try but cannot succeed; illness stops them in their tracks or there are too many mouths to feed and provide shelter for.

Then there are the ones who call the workhouse home. The ones like widower Michael Thompson who's stayed on for years because he's getting on in years and infirm - a burden on his family. The man is no trouble really; a crippled left leg and mostly useless left hand. But he is unable to work on his family's farm and unable to work means that he cannot earn his keep. It is a difficult decision that his family has made; at least Charles hopes that they have struggled with such a decision and not just shoved the man out of the centuries old cottage their ancestors have occupied for ages and forced him into the cold brick and tile reality of the workhouse. Occasionally, Thompson's eldest son and grandson come to visit and Charles notices how the old man's eyes light up when he sees them; how he proudly tells them that Mr. Carson has given him a job. He explains that Mr. Carson as entrusted him with the night watch at the front gate two nights a week when Mssers. Flynn and Croft have the night off. It is a job that Michael Thompson performs with pride. The meeting of people like himself, people who've fallen on hard times, who need a place to stay for the night, and Charles, in a small way, has given this man back his pride, his self-worth when it had been so easily erased by circumstance beyond his control.

And then there are those who Charles can no longer help. Those he gives Jim Barnett, groundskeeper, the orders to bury out in the pauper's section of the cemetery; their families refusing to claim the body. Perhaps they've no money to give the dead a proper burial or they've no desire to be further associated with their relative. Sometimes Charles, the workhouse staff, and a few of the inmates are the only ones to pay the departed any final respects.

His is a demanding job; one that weighs heavily on Charles's broad shoulders. In the final analysis, when he can put the workhouse out of his mind for a few moments each day, his happiness is found in his friendships, in the village cricket team, and importantly in his wife, Sarah, her belly full with his child.

* * *

When he was a boy, a skinny lad all skin and bones, sharp elbows and long spindly arms, skinny legs and knobby knees, his mother worried that he'd never pick up any weight, young Charlie dreamt of being a famous cricketer.

But little boys' dreams and reality of it all often turn out to be different. In truth, the young Yorkshire lad grew up in the shadow of his father, a well-respected groom who tended the horses at Downton Abbey in the village of Downton between Ripon and Thirsk.

Ernest Carson was well esteemed by the Crawley family for his attention to detail and his knowledge of horseflesh. Elite families from around North Yorkshire made their way to call on the keeper of the stables at Downton requesting his knowledge and asking him to judge their own stock. The old earl even allowed him to travel to the stock shows to choose colts, sires, fillies, and dams for the Downton stables without his approval. Most, including Ernest, assumed that Charles would follow in his father's footsteps. Young Charlie had other ideas. Charlie was a dreamer. A boy with his head in the clouds.

While mucking out the barns, spreading hay, or brushing down her ladyship's favorite colt, Charlie daydreamed of freshly mowed grass, of the cricket pitch, of crowds gathered around from near and far to watch his team play, to cheer him and his team mates on to victory. When his chores were complete and his father satisfied, he took to the sprawling grassy spot behind the barn to practice his technique. Young Charlie practiced every moment that he could spare. Though Ernest thought his son foolish for thinking a career in cricket a fit profession for a grown man, he admired his son's persistence at perfection and soon he joined his son at daily practice. In no time, the father could admit that the son had some talent at sport. But Ernest kept that encouragement to himself. What good would it do to push the boy out of the house and out of Downton prematurely only when heartbreak possibly lay in his future.

By the time that he was old enough, his back and chest grown broad, his arms and legs grown long and muscular, His Lordship appointed Charles assistant groom in charge of Young Lady Rosamund's Horse Triumph. Charles did well and the family took a liking to him and Lord Grantham offered him a place on the house cricket team and that year they handily defeated the village team.

When Charles Carson turned twenty he earned a place on Yorkshires's Cricket Club Team.

Charles had enjoyed the attention that the game had brought to him and had enjoyed the camaraderie among his teammates. He'd enjoyed the free pints of beer at the local pub after a win and the attentions of the women who gazed at him sweetly when he declined to join his mates and when he'd blushed as Charlie Grigg and the boys sang the bawdy tale of _Sweet_ _Joan_. Charles cringed as he watched Grigg and a man named Hornsby take advantage of unsuspecting village men with whom they played cards in local pubs. Grigg and Hornsby, who came to Yorkshire Cricket Club by way of London and whose scruples were suspect, often cheated drunk farmers and townsmen out of a week's pay with no thought whatsoever. These same men chastised Charles when, once, they dragged him into a brothel and he refused to take a woman upstairs but instead paid a Miss Alice Neal, a sad, but lovely young woman to keep time with him talking, downstairs instead. Charles always wondered what Miss Neal's story was.

But an injury to his knee five years into his career prematurely ended his career and Charles found himself back home in Downton and for a long while unhappy with his circumstances. He had considered himself a failure though his injury was simply an accident, a sorry twist of fate, but a failure nonetheless. He'd come home disappointed with himself. For the first time in his life, Charles Carson had no job security.

Until he answered an advertisement in the Yorkshire Post.

* * *

Charles and Sarah, his petite, raven-haired beauty, work side by side at Downton Workhouse. She oversees her job as the Matron with gentle firmness and holds the respect of those who enter the workhouse gates. Charles insists that she lessen her duties now and let him take over. He hires an additional nurse to come in a few days a week to assist Mrs. Crawley with births as his wife can no longer assist in her midwifery duties. Truth be told in her advanced condition, Charles doesn't want Sarah in the sick wards, doesn't want her around the coughing, the blood, the dysentery, the diseased, and dying. She is determined to work until the last day of her pregnancy if the doctor allows it. Charles's hovering drives her mad, but there is nothing for it. The first-time father overflows with happiness that their home will soon be filled with the sounds of a baby's sweet cooing.

"Sarah, I wished that you would sit down and put your feet up. This can wait until the morning or if it worries you so much, I'll do it," Charles admonishes his wife as she sits uncomfortably leaned against a hard-backed chair, her corset loosened as much as can be.

"You can number the linens but you can't go downstairs to the women's ward and check that everyone is in bed and that the fires are out," she replies matter-of-factly.

She puts one hand on the desk that she's sitting at and the other on the back of her chair and pushes herself up. With a groan, she rises to her feet and smiles at her husband. "It'll not be long now," she laughs rubbing her full belly. "Must be a boy, big and strong like his dad." There's fondness in her words and a twinkle in her eye.

"Don't stay down too long. You've had a busy day," Charles gently warns as Sarah walks toward the door to their apartment.

"I'll won't be long. I promise," she assures him shaking her head at his endless, needless worrying.

Charles returns to reading the sport page, sighing when he finds the Yorkshire Cricket Club's score from the day before. He sees the names of his teammates and a wave of sadness passes over him for the life that he once had. Then he thinks on the life he has now with Sarah and the baby who is coming and he feels a bit guilt for the momentary sadness over those few short years spent playing on the cricket field. He smiles when he thinks of the babe who is soon to arrive; he can almost hear the sound of tiny feet running about the place.

It's half past eleven when Charles rubs the sleep from his eyes and realizes that Sarah hasn't returned from her rounds. He scrubs a hand across his face and through his hair. Sometimes she spends time talking with some of the women, the young fallen women, or the women, frightened and confused, who've come to them expecting little ones. But she's never stayed downstairs longer than an hour and its going on nearly two hours since she's gone down and Charles is worried.

He slips on his boots, does up the laces, and makes his way to the door that divides their little apartment from the rest of the place. He trudges down the long staircase when he stops cold in his tracks.

* * *

 **A/N: Since this was published on Tumblr, I've edited (Though I do not have a beta, so you will always encounter mistakes; I apologize), added some characters, changed the name of Charles's wife to Sarah from Mary. If you are interested Google the lyrics of Sweet Joan. There are multiple versions, but you can easily find the bawdy version Grigg would have sung. I thank those of you who have read, favorited, followed, and left reviews. This story is angsty in the beginning, but we will see our Chelsie together. Elsie, in canon, once told Bates something about everyone having scars seen and unseen. This exlpores those scars and the healing of them. It is drama and romance. Thank you for reading and reviewing.**


	3. Chapter 3: Scotland

**Chapter Three**

 **Scotland**

She's not been able to catch one wink on the train. Her head against the glass of the window, Elsie watches the countryside pass by in the distance. It's seems an age since she's been home and in the bosom of the Highlands. While she's changed so much and she wonders if Argyll has changed, then she shakes her head and bites back a sad smile at her own foolishness. The land doesn't change. Rolling hills don't move and Loch Fyne is still bountiful with oyster, herring, and blue whiting. Sheep still trod over green pastures and wheat and grasses are still harvested. The river that flows beside the magnificent Duneagle Castle is still crystal clear and as unspoiled as the first day water began coursing along its banks.

Fathers and mothers still hold their bairns close and tell them the lore of the land; they tell them of William Wallace and how he lead the revolt against the brutal tyranny of the invaders from the south. They tell them of fairies and sprites that hide among the hills and sea creatures that live beneath the deep waters of the lochs. No, she thinks, the land, the countryside, doesn't change. Much.

And then the train pulls into Glasgow station and takes on more passengers while for others the city is their final destination and they disembark. The busy station is a far cry from the small station near Parkside Hall in scenic Yorkshire. Glasgow is bustling and industrial. The din of the city reminds Elsie of the first time she passed through it many years ago en route to England to claim her position at Parkside. She could have gotten off the train, written a letter to Mrs. Corbin and explained that her situation had changed, that her father had died, and that her mam needed her at home. Mrs. Corbin would have never known that she stayed in Glasgow and found a job in a shop, met a nice young man, married, and become a mother. But she stayed on the train, left excitement and possibilities of the city behind her, and headed south to the beauty and tranquility of the Yorkshire countryside.

She watches young men and their wives hurrying their children along, lifting them up the steps and into the third class carriage where she sits. The mothers apologize as their children bound into nearby seats. Elsie smiles and waves them off. There are very young women traveling alone who are carrying worn satchels filled with all their earthly possessions. She was that young woman once. She reckons that she is that young woman still. In some ways.

* * *

Elsie's managed a bit of sleep on the trip from Glasgow to the tiny station where her uncle will pick her up. She's awakened by the the train pulling into the station and she fumbles in her handbag for the ticket to present to the porter for her baggage. Once she's found it, she disembarks from the train and steps out onto the platform, hands her ticket to the porter, and collects her bag. She finds her uncle among the few people who are milling about the station. Her eyes narrow a bit and her face pulls in concentration as she takes in her surroundings; Elsie cannot help but stare a bit. He's in the distance and she knows that he is looking for her but she's not drawn his attention. Instead, she pauses just a moment, stunned at how he's aged in the two years since she's seen him last. His hair is turning white, no longer the patent black of her last memory of him, his shoulders are rounding with the pain of years of work, and his height not nearly as commanding as it once was. Uncle Rab has always been a bull of a man, but Elsie drops her eyes to the ground and rolls her lips tightly together, her face contorting in a mask of pain when the realization hits her that some things do change.

When she's pulled herself together she calls out to him. "Uncle Rab," Elsie calls with a bright smile and a wave of a hand. When Rab's head whips around and his eyes flick up to meet hers, Elsie finds that one thing about her uncle hasn't changed; the clear, blue, kind eyes that she remembers from her childhood smile back at her. The McKay eyes that shine full of life and mischief almost erase the sorrow that fills her heart.

The wagon ride to her mother's cottage is quiet, and after the initial questions are asked and answered about her mother's condition, gentle conversation follows as Rab asks his niece what it's like to work in a grand house and to be surrounded with generations of finery. He asks of her responsibilities and is thrilled to hear that Mrs. Corbin has put in a good word for her with Her Ladyship regarding Elsie's promotion to Housekeeper. Elsie knows by the nature of the questions and the way her uncle's face lights up as she answers, that he is proud of the progress she has made in her career and she feels a surge of pride. After her father's death, her uncle has always been her stalwart supporter. After four children of his own dead before they turned five, Elsie and Becky were "his own daughters" he once told her. Rab is a kind man, a second father to the Hughes sisters and for that Elsie's been grateful.

When they arrive at her mother's cottage it is much as she remembers it. Small and white, on the edge of a wood with a garden spot to one side. Only the garden isn't in bloom now and it's filled with weeds and the bushes are overgrown. The garden hasn't been tended in some time and Elsie's heart sinks. She knows that her mother has been far sicker and for much longer than she has been lead to believe.

"Elsie, I'll not lie to you," her uncle looks off in to the distance as he considers his next words carefully. "Your Mam is very, very ill. The doctor hasn't given her much time."

Her uncle has never been one to lie to her. It's a trait they share even though there are some things that she doesn't always say. Things that not everyone needs to know. She learned that skill on the farm when children gawked at Becky on the schoolyard or when she heard some of the townswomen wondering about Becky and her condition. There was no reason to upset her parents with the hateful murmurings of ignorant people. The skill of discretion has served her well as a housemaid and will serve her well as Housekeeper when the time comes.

"How is Becky?" she finally asks. "Does she realize … "

"I'm not sure, Elsie," Rab begins softly as he helps her down from her seat on the cart. "She's been by Meg's beside the whole time, rubbing her hands, singing to her."

Rab's voice falters a little and Elsie hears the sorrow as the words leave his mouth. Not only does he love his sister, but he's mourning her already. He's crying for the girls that he's thought of as his own since they were born. He's suffered such great loss in his life. The loss of his own children, his wife, and now his sister soon to join them.

"Best go in," her uncle urges gently as he takes Elsie's hand in his.

* * *

The cottage is dark and smells of damp, and Elsie breathes in the faintest hint of something metallic and then she sees in the corner of the kitchen, near the back door, a jumbled pile of linens stained and some are bloody. As tears sting her eyes, she brings a hand to her mouth to quiet the cry that threatens. During her years in service, Elsie has cleaned everything from her employers slop jars to soiled bedsheets and underthings, but this is different. Those soiled things were simply part of her job, a means to an end. Every emptied chamber pot, every soiled sheet scrubbed clean, every mended piece of clothing has simply been a step up the rung to her ultimate goal of one day being Housekeeper. But what she's seen today – the bloodstained vestments of her dying mother is something she had never prepared to herself to see. There is nothing good in this, nothing at all.

"I'm sorry Elsie," her uncle begins to apologize. "I didn't mean for you to see them. Meant to burn them. The bleeding comes when she coughs. Doctor Glyn said that Meg's lungs are so very weak. Pneumonia."

"It's all right, Uncle Rab. You've done more than anyone should expect," Elsie replies with a comforting hand placed to his arm.

When they make their way into the back of the house, Elsie finds Becky's room, much as it was when she left home, when they shared it. The counterpane is frayed in places and the bed a bit battered but everything else is still familiar. She smiles when she sees the doll that she gifted Becky one year resting atop her pillow. Funny, Elsie thinks, how Her Ladyship's daughter was ready to toss the doll into the charity bin, all because she was no longer interested in it. When Elsie had mentioned a younger sister who had never had such a fine china doll before, Lady Charlotte gifted it to her. Elsie still remembers her mother her mother telling her how Becky slept side-by-side with the doll for months afterward.

Elsie takes a deep breath and steadies herself as she enters her mother's room. She finds her mother, eyes closed, her skin ghost white, and her breathing shallow. The faint sound of gurgle beginning fills the room and Elsie's first impulse is to flee; to flee and never come back. To board the next train to Yorkshire and forget all of this. But it's a momentary thought and she's not that type of person. She's not a coward and never has been. If Becky can stand it surely so can she.

Becky sits on one side of her mother's bed while a woman Elsie recognizes occupies a chair in the corner of the room. Anne Keith, wife of the local minister, steadies herself and rises from the seat she's occupying to make her way toward Elsie. Mrs. Keith is a woman of late middle age, with greying ginger hair and hazel eyes. Because Elsie's been in Yorkshire a decade now, the minister's wife is more an acquaintance than someone Elsie knows well, but a friend to the Hughes family nonetheless; she's someone they trust. Her husband Michael has been their pastor a long while now and Elsie has heard glowing reports from her mother of his skills. He is a Calvinist through and through, a five-pointer for sure, preaching both hell-fire and heaven's rewards. Elsie attends the Anglican Church near Parkside now, but Calvinism isn't a habit, it is in her bones, and if her mother isn't a member of Michael Keith and God's elect then no one is.

"Hello Elsie."

"Hello Anne," Elsie replies warmly. "Thank you for sitting with Mam and Becky whilst Uncle Rab came to fetch me from the station."

"It was no trouble. I am happy to help." Anne turns toward the bed to observe her dear friend with whom she's sat day and night for the past several days. "Please let me know if there is anything I can do. You know where I am." She and Elsie share a meaningful look and then Anne collects her things leaving the three Hughes women alone.

"Becky," Elsie calls quietly. She waits for her sister to respond. Elsie never wants to frighten her sister, never wants to intrude into her space. "I'm here now."

For a moment Becky doesn't stir, doesn't look up, or acknowledge her sister's presence. Just as Elsie is about to speak again, about to place her hand on her younger sister's shoulder, Becky looks up and there are tears in her eyes. Elsie is reminded of the little girl who couldn't understand why the barn cat didn't come home or why Da was in a wooden box that was lowered into the ground. Elsie reaches and pulls her into a deep embrace and holds on to her for all that she's worth. And for a moment, she's not sure whether Becky is clinging to her for comfort or if it's the other way round. And what does it matter? Soon, they will be the only two left of their little family.

"Essie" Becky whispers worriedly, "I've tried to take care of Mam the best I could. Just like you said."

"I see that and I am proud of you," Elsie replies with a bright smile. That Becky remembers what Elsie told her two years ago and has taken it to her heart doesn't astonish her at all. Becky remembers everything that is important to her. She can recall all of the family birthdays, anniversaries, and stories that granny told her of she and Essie as girls. Though she cannot write them legibly, she can recite all of the Ten Commandments, the full text of the Sermon on the Mount, the Twenty-Third Psalm, and the Golden Rule.

"A sight for sore eyes." The voice is weak, nothing more than a whisper, but against the cottage's old stone walls and for the unexpectant ear, the words ring out as loud as church bells.

Elsie releases her sister and takes a seat on the bed next to her mother. Her mother has lost so much weight and her first instinct is to bustle into the kitchen and prepare some tea and a healthy stew. But Elsie knows that it is all too late for that.

"Hello, Mam."

"My Beautiful Elsie." Margaret tries to smile, but her body is too weary, she's fought to hard and too long, and cannot muster the strength, but the love in her eyes tells Elsie all she needs to know. My beautiful first daughter. I've held on for you. I love you.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What good …?" Elsie realizes that it is a struggle for her mother to breath and urges her not to say anymore.

Rab gently coaxes Becky from the room and out into the yard. There's a pup that came up a few days ago and Becky's become enamored with it; she's named it Brodie after a dog she and Elsie had as children. Brodie's become a welcome distraction where one is needed.

Elsie and Margaret need time alone.

Elsie sits with her mother for hours. She dredges a flannel through cool water and brushes across her mother's parched lips, allows a few drops to slide down her strained and burning throat. Margaret fades in and out of sleep but Elsie stays vigilant, reads to her mother from the Psalms, reads passages of comfort and passages that her mother has marked in her well-worn Bible. Margaret speaks in random thoughts, a few individual words, some with no order or meaning for her daughter. She mentions David, her husband and the girls' father; that makes Elsie weep. Elsie thinks of the times on the farm in the wee hours as she peeked around the corner and into the kitchen as Da pecked Mam on the cheek while she cooked up the eggs he'd collected that morning. And the Ceilidhs where Da played the fiddle and Mam danced the night away. Mam, an excellent dancer laughing and pulling Elsie into the circle, arm in arm teaching Elsie the reels and barn dances of their homeland. The soft lullabies Mam sang to Becky and her while they drifted off to sleep after Da had tucked them under warm covers. Elsie weeps for times that she'd never know again. As she listens to her mother's breathing and to her words of remembrance, Elsie gets swept away in her own memories, the memories of her four year-old self.

 _The babe that she has wished for is finally coming and Da has sent Uncle Rab for the midwife. Her mother's pregnancy has been a happy one and Elsie marvels at the idea that a baby has been growing inside her mother's belly. She has been a farm girl, watching births all her life, but this one will be different. A brother or a sister (she secretly hopes) to confide in, to be friends with, to roam the rolling hills with._

 _The day grows long and the sun fades behind the hills as Elsie grows tired, her eyelids growing heavy. Da reaches down as she reaches up, curling her hands around his neck as he carries her to bed. When she protests that she will miss the birth of her sister, for she is so very sure that the babe will be a sister, he smiles and tells her that she will have the rest of her life to enjoy the baby. The last thing she remembers his Da tucking her in and kissing her forehead._

 _Elsie thinks she's had a bad dream, a nightmare, and pulls the covers up to her chin. She's never heard Mam cry out like this or curses come from Da's mouth like she's hearing now. Da is such a calm man and it frightens Elsie to hear him so angry. Mam's cries are harsh, throaty, and strangled. Elsie knows that something is wrong. She quietly pushes the covers back and puts her feet down on floor. Sneaking around corner she sees commotion coming from her parents bedroom, her father's anguished face, the midwife struggling, and her aunt bursting through into the bedroom with warm blankets and pans of warm water. She clings to the door casing and until Uncle Rab comes into view and catches her out. There are tears in his eyes and Elsie remembers that once, some time back, Auntie's belly had been rounded and big; that Uncle Rab had told her that she'd have a little cousin to teach things to. And then he and Auntie had been very sad and there was no little cousin. She wonders if the same thing is happening to Mam. No one is bothering to tell her what is happening, until Uncle picks her up and walks outside with her but not before she hears scraps of conversation "a little girl," "wrapped around her neck," "infirm."_

 _She remembers the first time she saw her sister, a beautiful little thing._

 _All soft, big eyes and downy hair; Becky is a beautiful baby. Her mother beckons Elsie sit next to them, to introduce herself to this sister that she has so wanted. Her mother explains that the little bundle's name is Rebecca, that it means both captivating and tied up; her mother explains that it also means secure. That they must always make sure Becky is secure. Elsie understands the captivating part right away, for her sister captivates her. She loves her instantly, from the moment she extends her finger and the little bairn grasps it tightly. It will be fair few years before she understands the second meaning of the name, before she understands the life her sister is destined to lead and the tie that they will share._

* * *

Night has turned into day twice over and Elsie and Rab are astonished that Margaret has lived as long. Elsie owes it to her mother's stubbornness, to her sheer perseverance of will. Her mother hasn't opened her eyes or spoken any further, but Elsie has used the time to sit by her mother's side, to read to her, to brush her hair, to tell her of memories, of the love that she will always have for her. The doctor's been by and told them that it will not be long, that it's just a matter of hours, and it is all up to Margaret. That she's the one who will decide how long to hold on. The minister has been by and has said that God isn't ready to take her yet, isn't ready to snatch her away to heaven, that her life still has purpose, and that when the Almighty's will is done Margaret's life will be complete. Elsie wonders what purpose there is in this; this lingering.

"Becky, come wash up for supper," Elsie calls as she leans out the back door. "She's made a friend in that pup." She sighs as she watches Becky bounce around the backyard with Brodie.

"Well, it's no harm is it? Poor girl lost her Da and now her Mam just any moment," Rab answers as he pulls a chair away from the kitchen table and seats himself.

"I suppose not, but it's another mouth to feed when we've barely enough to feed ourselves," Elsie mutters as she begins to place the meager bowls of food that she's prepared on the table; a bowl of bubble and squeak, a bit of roast lamb, some warmed over bread. Elsie feels her blood begin boil as she thinks of how much her family has kept from her over the past year or so. She's so tired and overwhelmed with everything she's facing. Her beloved mother lying in the other room dying, an adult sister who's childlike and needs care, and the prospect of an uncertain future.

"How long have you three been living this way Uncle Rab? Hand to mouth with barely enough to fill your bellies? And why didn't anyone tell me?" Her fingers press into the table until her knuckles are white and fingertips burn red.

"Your mother wouldn't hear of …"

"I really don't want to hear again what Mam wouldn't hear of." The fury in her voice is evident and she's honestly had quite enough of this charade, this series of lies by omission to spare her feelings or whatever the reason has been.

"Elsie don't shout. We'll speak of this later," her uncle tries to soothe her.

Just as she turns back to the stove to fetch the kettle, she almost trips over a blur of brown and white that races by and out of the corner of her eye she sees Becky bounding in the back door.

"Becky, get that dog out of the house," Elsie snaps. "We don't need that mut dragging the outside in after I've just tidied up." The second the words leave her mouth, she regrets it and she sees Becky's face crumble. Elsie sounds as if she's just scolded a new housemaid and she's sorry for it. Tears fill her eyes and her hand flies to her mouth as she races outside, the door slamming behind her.

Rab shoves his chair out, the scraping sound of wood against wood harsh in the silence, and draws Becky into his arms.

"It's ok Becky, she didn't mean to be harsh. Elsie's only upset over your Mam," Rab tries to comfort Becky. "Your sister loves you. Do you understand me Becky?" Rab pulls away from Becky so that he can see her eyes and he wipes away the tears that are falling. "Becky Elsie loves you. She's only upset is all." Becky nods in recognition and Rab smoothes a hand over her hair, plants a kiss to her hair.

With Becky settled, Rab seeks out Elsie to find her sitting along an old stone wall in the back garden. Her face is tear-stained and she's staring at her feet; she's devastated that she's hurt her sister, the sweetest, most innocent person she knows. Rab settles in beside her and for a long moment there is nothing but silence between them.

"I never meant to hurt her," Elsie finally admits.

"I know you didn't," her uncle replies. "And Becky knows you didn't. Elsie, Meg doesn't lie. There may be things she doesn't say, but she doesn't lie. She wanted to protect you."

"I'm a grown woman," Elsie remains defiant.

"You'll always be her wee bairn. Her daughter. Until she draws her last breath, you and Becky will be on her mind," he reminds his niece. With watery eyes, Elsie looks over to her uncle and smiles. "She's very proud of you, you know. Meg is. Told everyone 'My daughter is going to be Housekeeper in a fine house on a big estate.'"

"I don't know about that," Elsie sniffles as she reaches into her dress pocket for a handkerchief and then dries her eyes.

"She didn't tell you about her illness until the end because she knew that you'd leave your position and come home. She has expectations of you Elsie."

"But I don't see how I can possibly…" Elsie and Rab's conversation is cut short when the back door is thrown open and Becky calls for them.

Margaret has awakened from her slumber and called her family in. She's spoken a few words of love to Becky and Rab and then wishes to spend her final moments with Elsie. Becky's fled from her mother's room in tears, with her Brodie in her arms and tucked tightly under her chin; she and the dog have crawled under the covers of her bed and though Elsie is loath that Becky take the dog to bed, she's not said a word to her sister. After all what does it matter now? Becky is but a girl in a woman's body and if holding the pup close gives her comfort what does it matter if they are wrapped tight in the bed linens? Bed linens can be laundered; a broken heart is much harder to mend.

Poor Rab left his sister's room scrubbing a gnarled fist across red eyes and a tear-stained face. He's the last of his generation, the last of the McKay siblings, and Margaret's death will sting. It already stings. He will be alone in the world. He's made his way to the kitchen and pulls out a chair. He settles himself there and stares out the kitchen window into the night's sky. He waits.

Elsie sits on the edge of the bed and she's astonished that her mother has the strength to speak. Margaret's only taken the water that's been washed across her lips, she is awake and astonishingly alert. Elsie has heard of this happening with ill patients, a last moment of clarity before death. She takes one of her mother's thin, frail hands in her own and holds it. For a moment, she wonders if it hurts. She wonders if it hurts her mother to move because she is so frail and her body is so undernourished it seems as if her bones might break.

"Els,"

"Mam, it's all right." Elsie tries to spare her mother the agony of speaking but her mother's eyes narrow Elsie sees that she is determined to push on, that this is something that she must do. Elsie pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and nods her head, a sign for her mother to continue.

"Els, I never meant …" Margaret takes a shallow breath before continuing "to keep things from you." She begins to cough and Elsie places her hand against her mother's back to lift her forward in a vain attempt to clear Margaret's throat. After several moments of fading in and out of consciousness Margaret speaks in phrases. It is so incredibly difficult for her to breathe. "Els, promise me … do the right thing for …."

"For Becky?" Elsie finishes for her mother. " I will Mam. I promise you that," Elsie replies as tears slip down her cheeks.

"And you," Margaret tells her. "Proud of you. Remember what I told you. My life … is … not yours. Sell. Go back to what you know. Who you are." Margaret is growing weaker, but her eyes are fixed on Elsie and she needs to know that her daughter understands her before she can die with any peace. "Do ... you … understand?"

Elsie nods in affirmation then lies down beside her mother. It is the last time that she will ever be cradled in her mother's arms this side of heaven and she feels selfish for not calling Becky in to be with them. But for this moment, Elsie needs to be alone in the quiet stillness of her mother's embrace.

* * *

The morning of the funeral is cold, the sky clear and the sun bright. The service in the village kirk had gone according to programme and Becky's been very solemn since Elsie held her hand and told her of their mother's passing. Elsie will never forget the feeling of dread that churned in the pit of her stomach when she had to tell her sister that there mother was dead, that she'd gone to sleep with the angels. That she'd be with Da and they'd be together. Though Elsie knows that Becky is capable of great emotion, laughter, joy, heartbreak, and sorrow - her face was impassive, but tears filled her eyes. Elsie hugged her tight; whispered words of comfort, promises to take care of her in their mother's stead.

At the graveside, when the minister asks if anyone wishes to speak, no one steps forward. Poor Becky stands in stone silence and grips the hand of her uncle. None of Margaret's friends, friends that she's had for decades come forward. Perhaps they believe that the minister has made remarks enough, that they could not possibly add anything more than what many of them offered in eulogy at the church service. Just as the Reverend Keith readies to offer a final prayer, one person moves a sure foot forward.

"My feet shall tread no more

When I die, will you bury me

Beneath the rowan tree"

Elsie's voice rings true and clear through the churchyard, echoes over ancient stone stones, and blankets her mother's grave. Where most have already bowed in prayer, their heads snap up to find David and Margaret's first born standing ram-rod straight, dry-eyed, strong-voiced, singing for her mother, for her father, for all who had gone before.

" I love thy frosty morn

Where the hunters winds it's horn

And I heathered moors and glens

I'll not roam again

Though on Scotland's purple breast

I no longer take my rest

When I die, will you bury me

Beneath the rowan tree."

At brave Cunoden's stand

Highland blood like water ran

3000 pounds upon my head

For dear, life one fled

Oh but though no crown I won

I'll always be your yom' native son

So When I die, will you bury me

Beneath the rowan tree"

A/N: Under the Rowan Tree can be found on YouTube and the remembrance of Becky's birth was lifted from my fic 'Becky' which can be found on this website. This was the most difficult chapter for me to re-write and is greatly expanded from its original version published on Tumblr. I hope that I've done the characters justice. If you've made it this far, thank you for reading. This road for Chelsie won't be easy, but I hope that makes the destination that much sweeter for them.


	4. Chapter 4: Downton

**Chapter Four:**

 **Downton**

Minutes have ticked past into hours since Charles found workhouse inmate Laura Banks rushing breathlessly up the stairs to tell him that Sarah had gone into labour. For a moment, he felt as if the very breath had been stolen from his lungs. Stunned, he listened quietly as Laura explained how while walking the maternity section of the women's ward of the infirmary, checking that everything was in order, and giving general instructions for the next day, Sarah suddenly winced in pain, put a hand on her stomach, and doubled over next to an empty cot. Mary McGregor, a widow of some years, mother of three, grandmother to a baker's dozen, and maternity ward helper wrapped her arm around Sarah's back and gently helped her to lie down.

* * *

Charles steady pacing is wearing a groove in the already worn black and red tiles of the infirmary's maternity ward. Hannah Heath, an inmate, and the maternity ward's midwife has been with Sarah the entire time and after Charles brief visit with Sarah, Hannah tells him that's better if he waits in the corridor. She tells him that he'll not want to be in the room for the birth. After all, labouring and delivery is a hard business and only after it's all over will mum and baby be ready to see him. Reluctantly and with approval from Sarah, a grumbling Charles makes his way out into the corridor and for the first time, he realizes that they haven't a proper area for a father to await the birth of his child.

Most of the women who give birth at the workhouse are without a husband.

The men who've lain with these women had no intentions of marriage, no intentions of making honest women out of them. No. These men either sweet-talked innocent shop girls or poor farmer's daughters with velvet lies of love and promises they never intended on fulfilling. Some women they selected from a lineup, had their way with them for the coins in their pockets, and then left them alone, pregnant, and on the mercy of the world. There aren't any men awaiting the birth of a babe born to these women. Charles thinks about those women who have been reduced to degrading themselves before men who think of them as nothing more than objects of their own desire and then he wonders what happened to Alice Neal. He wonders if she ended up in a workhouse somewhere, pregnant, and alone. He wonders what reduced such a handsome woman to prostitution. What reduces any woman to prostitution come to think of it? But Alice had been sweet to him, she'd not pushed and goaded him into accepting her _services_ like some of the other women in her profession, like her sister, who'd caught the attention of one of his teammates. What a sad way to live, Charles thinks. Selling false affection, but it isn't affection is it? It's a shadow of affection. A distortion of the thing that he and Sarah feel. Odd to think of Alice Neal at a time like this when his wife is in labour and their child to be delivered soon. He hasn't thought of the woman in years. The things one thinks of when all one has is time.

Charles pulls his pocket watch free and looks at the time. It's going on half past four in the morning and Sarah hasn't delivered yet. He closes his watch and replaces it in his pocket then scrubs a hand through his hair. He knows that generations of women before her and generations of women after her have done and will do the same thing. Childbirth a natural process of life. It's one thing that women have in common. Some women anyway. He remembers his grandmother's sister who bore no children and the whispers of women of the family. How they took turns watching out for her each month when she expected the signs of a pregnancy yet none came. How she fell into melancholy, mourning the children that would never be.

Charles stands and shoves his hands in his pockets. It's been a long while since he's seen Sarah and his thoughts are running away with him. There really isn't anyone to wait with him to talk with him and take his mind off these odd and distracting thoughts. He hasn't a brother or sister and he'll not send for his parents until at least after sunrise. Isobel Crawley, the upper-middle-class widow of a doctor, cousin to the Crawley family of Downton Abbey, accomplished nurse, and infirmary superintendent will not arrive for another hour and the only ones on the ward with formal training are a few young nurses and medical officer Thomas Barrow.

Though Charles has no real experience in these things, he remembers his time helping his father in the stables and that the longer the labour, the greater the chances of something going horribly wrong. But he tries to push such thoughts out of his mind. Sarah is young and healthy. Her pregnancy has been uneventful and surely the midwife would have told him by now if something was wrong.

Beryl Patmore, who's been the cook at the workhouse for several years longer than Charles has been Master, and who runs her kitchen with the precision of a field general, is keeping early hours in the kitchen. She's a much more accomplished cook that what is required of her by the needs of her employment and Sarah Carson is always slipping into her hands newspaper clippings of situations for hire, but Beryl seems uninterested in leaving the workhouse yet to serve as an apprentice in a manor house when she has been in charge of her own kitchen for some time now. Charles has heard mention that the owners of the Goose and Gander Tea Room may be selling up in a year or so and that their friend may be biding her time until she can purchase the well-known establishment from the owners. While he will hate to see her go, he can't blame her. In fact, he envies her. He wishes that he and Sarah could find their way out of the workhouse.

Meanwhile, the cook, accustomed to late nights and early mornings, is determined to see that Mr. Carson and those attending his wife are sustained for what seems long morning ahead. Beryl assembles a tray with a tin of chocolate biscuits and a pot of tea with a few cups. She's slipped a flask of single malt into the pocket of her apron because she knows Charles Carson well enough to know that tea will not calm his nerves one bit.

"You are a welcome sight," Charles sighs with a weak smile.

"How's she doing?" Beryl's Yorkshire accent is heavy, thick with sleep. Four o'clock is an early wake time no matter how accustomed one is to it.

"They haven't told me much," he confides in her. "I feel useless." Charles takes the tray from Beryl and places it on a table between two chairs that are nearby. They each take a seat and the cook pours them a cup of steaming hot tea as Charles reaches for the biscuit tin. Beryl cannot help but tenderly smile at the man. He has a sweet tooth, there is no denying it.

"I should have brought you a piece of that treacle tart that we had left over from yesterday," she laughs softly.

"Mmm … Perhaps." There is a hint of a smile in his voice. Where most think the cook and the workhouse master gruff and often unreasonable, they get along well; they see the soft side of one another, for they are good friends.

"How about I go and check how she's doing, hmm?" Beryl asks as she places her tea cup on the tray. Charles casts an appreciative gaze her way in thanks. "I'll be back in two winks," she promises.

Beryl's gone longer than the two winks that she promised and Charles begins to worry. He knows that something is wrong. He can feel it in his bones. He's sent George Birch to fetch Dr. Tapsell and wonders where on earth the two men are. Charles gave Birch explicit instructions to bring back the doctor as soon as possible and even though the women attending his wife assured him that a midwife will suffice, Charles wants a doctor present. He balls one fist and grinds it into the order, muttering curses under his breath. He's not a man to allow such things slip from his lips, he's disciplined and must be an example to the men in his charge. If he so much as hears a swear from one of the tramps or vagrants on the workhouse floor, he disciplines them harshly. But Charles reckons that he's earned the right to let a swear of frustration loose. After all none of those men are anywhere near this ward and no one has heard him anyway. Just as the tension is about to spill over he hears male voices and the thudding of footsteps coming toward him.

The doctor barely has a word for him and sweeps past in his overcoat and top hat, his medical bag in hand. Charles cast an angry glare in the good doctor's direction but he doesn't notice; he's too busy shedding his coat and doffing his top hat, then handing them over to Mr. Birch. He removes his shiny gold cufflinks, something Charles knows that he'll probably never own, and places them into his waistcoat pocket. Just as Dr. Tapsell is about to disappear behind the curtain that separates Charles from his wife and soon-to-be-born child, Charles steps forward and grabs him roughly by the wrist.

"Where have you been?" It's so unlike Charles to be aggressive, to find himself angry even, but his tone is menacing, frightening even.

"Mr. Carson, I have been attending other patients. Mrs. Carson isn't the only woman in labour. Mrs. Wigan just delivered a little boy not an hour ago." Charles releases the doctor's wrist and with an apology, allows him to draw the curtain back and attend to Sarah.

Charles hears the hurried taps of a woman's boot heels clattering on the tile floor and looks up to see Isobel Crawley rushing toward him.

"Why didn't you send for me the minute she went into labour?" The words spill out of her mouth almost one over the other like droplets of water cascading over a cliff. "And why on earth is she labouring on the ward and not in hospital?" Isobel seems angry and Charles is put off at the way she is speaking to him. He's unsure if she's put out with him out of concern for Sarah, because of their friendship, or because the professional in her has taken over. Either way, he doesn't appreciate being spoken to in such a manner.

"Now just a minute," Charles blusters his eyes flashing with anger.

"I'm sorry," Isobel replies contritely, "It's just that I want everything to go smoothly is all. She'll be fine I'm sure. I just was surprised to find out from the women when I walked in this morning is all." She notices Charles's shoulders relax and once again they are on more even footing.

"Dr. Tapsell _finally_ arrived a few moments ago. I'll not deny that I'm worried, Isobel."

"First babies have a mind of their own Charles," Isobel replies with a comforting smile. "I'm sure that everything will be all right. I'll go back now." She places a comforting hand on Charles's arm and gives a gentle squeeze as she walks past him and pulls the curtain back to enter Sarah's cubicle.

Hushed voices fill the tiny space that has been cordoned off for Sarah and Charles can only make out a few words and phrases, yet what is clear to him is the increasingly loud cries of his wife. He knows that with the birthing process comes pain but that in this day and age it seems so cruel for women, for his wife, to endure such misery while bringing life into the world. Charles knows of remedies for pain; he saw them during his playing days when men were injured and wonders why his wife is not offered something to ease her agony.

Isobel Crawley and Dr. Tapsell seem to be at odds and just as Charles is about to charge into the birthing theatre Beryl Patmore walks out and she looks infinitely wearier than before. He hopes that it is just because the early morning hours have rolled around. He tries to push away any other thoughts, thoughts that she's worried over Sarah, perhaps that she's understood the things that Isobel and Dr. Tapsell are disagreeing over.

"Well," he asks nervously, his hands wringing together almost of their own accord.

"I only know that Mrs. Crawley thinks that the baby is large and that it's laying the wrong way maybe." Beryl eyes squint in confusion and she shakes her head just the slightest bit as if to make sense of the things that she's just heard. She's had to tease apart medical terminology from the laymen's talk she's heard at the births she's attended.

"Bloody hell," Charles mumbles as he scrubs a hand through his hair. "Enough of this!"

When Charles pulls the dividing sheet back he is stunned with what he finds. Sarah is lying flat on her back, her knees pulled up, her face pale, her raven hair disheveled and flared on the pillow behind her. She's listless, almost unaware of the world around her. For a moment, Charles loses his breath and the ability to speak. His stillness is only momentary and when he recovers he turns an indignant eye to Dr. Tapsell and the others in the room.

"I demand to know what is going on here!"

"Your wife is progressing just as she should Mr. Carson." Phillip Tapsell has a reputation as a fine doctor, but Charles does not appreciate the smooth, yet condescending tone with which he speaks to those around him. While a physician must be self-confident, Tapsell is smug and superior to those he deems his social inferiors. Tapsell hasn't been in Downton long; he's an outsider and Charles isn't sure why someone who isn't suited to country life has chosen Downton to set up shop.

"Isobel?" Isobel squirms a bit under the questioning of her friend and employer. As a nurse, she isn't to question her superior, but she fears that the doctor has made a fateful mistake. She's the one who has made Sarah's regular examinations, measured the baby, spoken with Sarah about her general feelings over the course of the pregnancy.

"Dr. Tapsell examined her …"

"Have _you_ examined her?" Charles interrupts Isobel.

Isobel takes a deep breath before answering. "I have and I think that perhaps there might be an alternative to …."

"Mrs. Crawley," Dr. Tapsell postures, his chest puffing off out and his countenance hard "I don't think it the business of a nurse to countermand the advice of a doctor."

Isobel offers no apology or contrition but simply narrows her eyes and lips, her face pulling in fury. Just as Charles is about to further confront the doctor, Sarah rouses and cries out. He turns and is immediately at her side.

"Oh, my god, Sarah," Charles whispers as he drops to his knees taking her hand in his and bringing it to his lips. At the sensation of her husband's breath on her fingers, Sarah flexes her fingers in his grasp.

"Our boy is a stubborn one," she sighs as she reaches across and brushes Charles's cheeks with fingertips of her free hand.

"How do you know the baby is a boy?" Charles asks tearfully.

"Mothers know these things," she replies with a knowing smile.

* * *

As early morning turns into afternoon and afternoon into evening, a baby's piercing cry has not echoed through the halls of the infirmary. Dr. Tapsell has informed Charles that Sarah is progressing normally, albeit slowly and that first babies often take their time. He's offered Charles a reassuring pat on the back and told him to enjoy a pint or two of beer while they wait.

Charles has heard Mrs. Crawley and Dr. Tapsell arguing vehemently over the proper course of action. She, arguing to perform a Caesarian operation even though the operation is relatively new but could save the lives of both mother and child. He, arguing to watch and wait, that a Caesarian is often fatal when performed inside hospital much less in a workhouse infirmary.

As Sarah's pain grows more intense, Charles keeps vigil by her bedside though the good doctor has told him that it isn't necessary. To her great credit, Mrs. Crawley has become the Carsons' advocate and stands her ground with the doctor telling him in no uncertain terms a husband has a right to be by his wife's bedside if he wishes.

"Dr. Tapsell, if Mr. Carson wishes to remain by his wife and it comforts her, why do you insist that he leave?" Isobel pleads her case.

"Mrs. Crawley, I understand that your husband may have allowed your … interference … but I am not the late Dr. Crawley and I will not tolerate the insubordination of a _nurse_. So if you wish to remain in this room, you will not question my judgment again," the doctor roars condescending.

Charles watches as his friend and dutiful workhouse nurse, the woman beside whom his wife has worked for years, bites back a sharp response. It isn't in Isobel Crawley's character to back down from a fight. She is a woman of conviction and high moral principles; a dutiful champion of those less fortunate and of those who cannot advocate for themselves. She needs to be useful.

As Mrs. Crawley goes about her business, she dredges a flannel through cool water and passes it to Charles. He looks up with a crooked smile and a nod in thanks for taking on his cause with the doctor who's allowed him to stay.

"Perhaps, this will make her more comfortable," she says as presses the cloth into Charles's hand.

"She's getting weaker Isobel," Charles replies quietly. "I'm not sure that she can withstand much more."

* * *

The hands of the clock have ticked past midnight and into yet another day and it is becoming clearer by the moment that something is dreadfully wrong. Sarah's pain is intense and Charles hears the nurse and doctor mentioning technical words like uterine dystocia and transverse; Charles knows what the word _transverse_ means. He's heard his father use the word before when a mare had a troubled labour and the foal lay incorrectly in its mother's womb.

"Dr. Tapsell, the meconium is passing," Isobel calls to the doctor. The worry is evident in her voice.

The cook has brought breakfast up and the doctor is finishing when he sets his coffee cup on the tray she's brought him and rushes over to the bed on which Sarah lies. Charles sees the horrified look pass across the doctor's face and knows that his worst fears are confirmed.

"What does this mean?" Charles questions.

"It means that the baby is in distress," the doctor replies quietly.

"You said that everything was fine. That first babies are simply slow in being born," Charles rages. "When Mrs. Crawley suggested the operation … "

"Mr. Carson, even if we had performed the operation there might not be a guarantee that your wife or the baby would survive. There is still a chance for both of them. For your wife," the doctor argues.

Charles glances to Isobel and sees the truth written all over her face. His wife and child may not survive and he can do nothing about it. Nothing at all.

In the mid-afternoon, Sarah delivers a stillborn son. A perfectly formed little boy with broad shoulders and a round belly. As she's predicted, he looks just like his father. Isobel wraps the babe and hands him to his father. A long moment passes between the two and Charles understands what he is to do. With tears in his eyes, he places the boy in his mother's arms and Sarah smiles adoringly.

"He is perfect Charles. A beautiful boy, like his dad. I knew that I was right," she teases. She cradles the babe and with the tips of her fingers brushes the downy black hair that covers his head, and she kisses the end of his button nose. "Look Charles, he's sleepy. It took him an age to get here. He's tired I imagine," she coos.

Charles is both heart-broken and terrified; his eyes are red with tears and his brows are knit in confusion.

"She's delirious, Charles," Isobel confirms sadly, quietly. "She doesn't realize … "

Finally, after Beryl Patmore has come and paid her respects, cradled little Baby Carson in her arms and kissed his brow, Charles and Sarah have one last moment with their son.

"Mrs. Crawley needs a look at our boy, love," Charles says as he places a kiss to his wife's cheek. "She needs to wrap him up in fresh linens."

Reluctantly, Sarah places the babe in her husband's arms but not before one final kiss to his cheek. Charles scoops the boy up in his arms and marvels on how perfect he is. The little lad is not the image of what he'd pictured at all. Not deformed after such a long, tortuous labor, but perfectly formed in every way. He pulls his boy close to his chest and knows that this is the last time that he will ever hold him and that the undertaker has already been called and will fetch him soon.

"Charles," Sarah whispers.

"Yes, love," he answers

"We haven't named him. Every baby needs a name," she smiles.

"You rest," Charles murmurs. "When you've rested, we'll think of a name. There will be plenty of time for that."

But there isn't time for the naming of a stillborn babe. Three hours later and after a series of haemorrhages, Sarah Carson joins her son.


	5. Chapter 5: Decisions

Chapter Five:

Decisions

 _Argyll_

As the sun rises, the fog burns off the countryside revealing pockets of lush green carpet and moss skirting the stony and craggy hillside. There is a smattering of snow left on the tops of the mountains in the distance. Elsie remembers her father often mused that the white-capped mountains were like old men with their silver-white locks and matching beards - majestic and to be honored. Their white mantles, nature's testament to a lifetime of endurance. And out in the distance where the snow has melted and the mountains give way to the valley below, livestock graze peacefully. The cottage is quiet except for the rustling of a couple of rabbits in the bramble out in the garden and the clinking together of cup and saucer as Elsie places sets the one atop the other. It is almost foreign to Elsie now, this quiet scene of domestic tranquility. She is so accustomed to cacophony of noise that pervades Parkside's servant's hall from sunup to the late evening hours, that the subtle quiet surrounding this little Scottish cottage almost startles her. She wonders if she could get accustomed to a quiet life once again.

She looks in on Becky, who thankfully, is finally resting peacefully after having had a restless night filled with terrorizing dreams punctuated with piercing cries for her mother. Though Elsie lay close beside her and rubbed a soothing had over her back and spoke comforting words against her hair, Becky didn't settle until the wee hours of the morning. Becky never told her sister the nature of her dreams and it doesn't matter, not really. Elsie won't ask because to mention it will only serve to upset her again and what purpose will that serve?

Brodie, curled at Becky's feet, lifts his chin, looks up to Elsie, and yawns. For a moment canine and human regard one another and while Elsie is still annoyed that the dog requires food off their sparsely laid table, she can't begrudge him too much. He's been a fine companion to Becky and provided Elsie with a distraction for her sister when one is needed; a game of fetch between companions while Elsie tidies the cottage or needs time to cry without worrying that she will upset her sister's fragile nerves. Brodie yawns again and stretches the length of his body before curling back against Becky, who reflexively throws an arm across him and snuggles him close. As she pulls the door closed behind her, Elsie is at least thankful that Becky is peaceful even if momentarily because peace is emotion that she, herself, doesn't feel at all.

* * *

 _Downton - The Workhouse_

They've all stood well clear of him. He knows that he's been gruff, demanding, even unreasonable lately. Everyone has caught the sharp edge of his tongue including Beryl Patmore, who gives as good as she gets, but she is giving him a wide berth because she realizes that his anger is borne of grief. He sees the look of pity in her eyes when he chastises her for allowing the inmates under her supervision to serve dinner either before or after the clock precisely strikes six o'clock. Charles almost wishes that she would argue back. That with all the force of her fiery temper, Beryl Patmore would tear a strip off him because then it would give him the excuse to rage full force. Then, he could roar like a lion and rightly so. And who could blame him because she would have been insubordinate; arguing with a superior is inexcusable after all. What's more Beryl is thick-skinned and understands him, she'd get over it. They've known one another since Downton Grammar and if he has a friend in anyone, it's the cook.

But every time he lashes out his conscience strikes him and he is instantly ashamed. Beryl hasn't deserved to bear the brunt of his temper, the working out of his grief.

Mrs. Crawley has suggested that he should take some time for himself, perhaps a respite to seaside. After all, he hasn't just lost a wife, but a child too, and no one would begrudge him a time of reflection and recovery after the funeral. She's offered suggestions – a quiet cottage by the seaside - because that is what she does, offer solutions to problems. And he knows that she means well, but being by himself is the last thing he needs. Even above the busy noise of the workhouse, all he can hear are his thoughts of what might have been. What should have been. The specter of guilt ringing in his ears.

* * *

 _Argyll – The cottage_

It's been a while since Elsie has been down on her knees scrubbing floors shoving the stiff bristles of a brush into every crack and crevice to loosen the grime and dirt that's accumulated there. After all, she's paid her dues and it is quite beneath her to take on such tasks now at Parkside Hall unless she's instructing one of the younger maids. Elsie's job now has more to do with the making of beds, dusting of trinkets, and overseeing of those who work beneath her. As of late, Mrs. Corbin has turned over much of the stillroom duties to her which she must admit has been a pleasant change of pace.

Elsie cannot deny that she desperately wants the job of Housekeeper. She's worked hard for the promotion, followed the rules, and done what was both expected and asked of her. She's been dependable, trustworthy, and circumspect in her demeanor. She's mastered the art of being professionally dispassionate, while being a friend to those both in the village and the servants hall. Early on, she understood that there were rules to the way of life that she has chosen and if she wished to advance, she'd do well to follow them. And follow them she has. The tenets of her Calvinist upbringing has seen to that what with it's emphasis on hard work and individual responsibility.

With every back and forth stroke, Elsie pushes the brush across the floor until she realizes that she isn't making much progress and has been scrubbing the same spot for a good ten minutes while she's been lost in thought. On her hands and knees, she stops and lifts her head to look around. From her vantage point, looking up from below, all she sees is a an aging and untidy cottage with dingy walls in need of a fresh coat of paint, furniture brought from the farm that has seen its better days, and a very bare store cupboard.

Shoulders sagging, Elsie's first instinct is to curl up and weep, but she's cried so very much that she hasn't any tears left to shed. Instead, she sets back to her work. She can do this type of work in her sleep and it's just as well because she's distracted by her own thoughts.

In everything that she's done Elsie has worked toward the position of housekeeper. But just as her goal is in her grasp, she feels it slipping through her fingertips. For so long now she has only borne responsibility for herself excepting the bit of money that she's sent home on occasion. But now Elsie is fully responsible for another human being and Becky isn't easy. She has always been 'a bit of a handful' as their granny used to say but since their mother's death Becky's outbursts have become more the norm than the exception and Elsie has borne then brunt of her temper. But she has also borne the agony of Becky's silence.

The doctor never told their parents exactly what condition afflicts Becky. There was a mention or two of 'childhood psychosis' whatever that meant and 'good Christian women' suggested that perhaps God was punishing David or Margaret Hughes for some deep sinful stain – "the sins of the father" – Elsie had heard the phrase more than once. How anyone could disparage David Hughes, a good and kind man, or dare to suggest that God had punished an innocent child because of her parent's sinfulness was beyond Elsie's comprehension. Still others had suggested that Becky's condition was simply God's will but then Elsie always bristled at that. The explanation seemed trite and trivializing. Though law defined her as simple, she was far from such a definition. The truth of the matter was that Becky Hughes was complex, a woman locked away in her own mind and the key yet to be found. Becky's obstinate nature could be challenging even under the best of circumstances.

" _Mam didn't cook it this way and I'm not eating it!" Becky's declaration of her dissatisfaction with the plate of food that Elsie has placed in front of her is jarring, but not surprising. Elsie's nerves are raw, but she's determined not to lash out in frustration. She's made that mistake before and she doesn't wish to hurt Becky's feelings; she knows that her sister hasn't meant to be rude or demanding. The loss of their mother has been difficult for them both and Becky's emotional state is in tatters._

 _"Becky, I know that I don't cook things exactly as Mam did," Elsie replies quietly as she slices through the roast lamb and proceeds to place a piece on her sister's plate. "I've been in England a while now and I've learned to cook things a bit differently. I thought we might try it like this."_

 _Becky crosses her arms over her chest and casts Elsie with a steely gaze._

 _"Becky, Mrs. Johnstone was kind enough to give us these chops from their lamb that was butchered so we must be thankful for that and not waste them." Elsie adds a spoonful of potatoes onto Becky's plate and then takes her seat. When she notices that Becky's not moved and that her expression hasn't changed, Elsie sighs deeply. "I know that you like mutton better, but that isn't an option. If you don't eat your supper, I'm afraid that you'll be hungry. We haven't anything else tonight," she adds kindly but firmly._

 _For the remainder of the meal the sisters sit in silence. Not a word is said as the sound of a knife and fork scraping against a plate is the only sound heard in the room. Becky has stood her ground and Elsie eats in silence._

The floors spotless and the cottage tidied, Elsie, Becky, and Brodie make their way to Rab's cottage just the other side of the wood and down beyond the stream. Becky's not spoken this morning except for a few words to the dog; she pushed the porridge around in her bowl, taking only a few bites. Elsie's coaxing feel on deaf ears; Becky was having none of it. She'd removed herself from the table and waited outside with Brodie until Elsie was ready to depart for Rab's place.

* * *

"Elsie, you know that I would take Becky if I could but …"

"Uncle Rab, I'm not asking that," Elsie assures him quietly. "But I do have to make some decisions and I am not sure how well Becky will adjust."

"Elsie you will always do what's best for your sister. You always have done. If you're talking of moving away then that's what you must do." Their family has always been one for practicality over sentiment, but she's an overwhelming sense of sentimentality as of late. Her uncle is her mother's last living sibling, the others moved away or long-since dead. And though she writes to them, Elsie's are cousins scattered to the winds. Perhaps Rab is right; maybe there is nothing to hold her to Argyll other than place of birth and familiarity.

"But you'll be all alone, perhaps you could come with us?"

"Nay, Elsie," he replies softly as he looks down and digs his the toe of his boot in the dirt. "I'm an old man now. I'm too rooted here. I'll be fine but you," he says turning to look at her as he takes her hand, "you've a life ahead of you and that life isn't here anymore. Sell the cottage and go back to what you know, who you know, your friends." Tears sting Elsie's eyes at her uncle's sincerity.

"You know that I will have lost my place as Head Housemaid." The words are painful to say, but she might as well put voice to them because they are the truth and Elsie's never been one to shy away from it.

"You don't think …"

"No," she replies in a whisper. "In service, there is no room for housemaids with family. That I am sure of." She looks out at the fields in front of them for a moment, dry and barren in winter before she gathers herself. "It may be different, difficult even, but, we will make a go of it Uncle Rab. We will."

* * *

 _Downtown - The Workhouse_

Beryl has had enough of his belligerence, of his bossiness, and his contrariness. If Charles Carson thinks that he frightens her with all of his blustering, then he's right, but not in the way that he thinks or perhaps intends. If his goals was to incite her, then it's a lost cause. She'll not argue back; she will not allow her temper which is on a hair-trigger even on the best of days to fire in his direction. At least not now. Perhaps under different conditions if what he complained about was really her work. But it isn't and she knows it. He's like a wounded animal, caught in a trap, lashing out at those trying to free it. But after tonight she's coddling him no more.

"Miss Patmore, I don't know why dinner service is late, but it is to begin precisely at six o'clock," Charles shouts into the kitchen, his pocket watch drawn and in hand.

"Mr. Carson, it is only ten minutes past the hour and as I informed you earlier, we had a problem with the stove heating properly, but we are ready to begin serving now." The cook tries her best to remain calm, but the dark countenance of her friend and boss is unchanged as he snaps closed his watch replacing it in his waistcoat pocket. Her answer has not satisfied him.

"If we deviate from the schedule in one thing, then the entire schedule falls apart! I don't know why we set them if we don't follow them!"

"I understand that but …."

" … in the Workhouse, Mrs. Patmore, if we allow things to slip then the inmates will be running the asylum." As the words tumble from his lips, a look of horror passes over his face. Miss Patmore is slack-jawed and the female inmates whose job it is to assist her stand in stunned silence. They've never seen Mr. Carson so impassioned, so unsympathetic. He's never really thought of himself as a warden or the workhouse as a prison, but a place of respite for those who society no longer wants. Sometimes he feels like he belongs to them himself.

Without excusing himself, Charles retreats to his quarters. Closing the doors behind him, he sinks into his chair and scrubs his hands through his hands until his head rests in his hands.

Before long, he hears two solid knocks at the door and he's loathe to answer it. He's not in the mood to deal with yet another problem and if Beryl is the other side of the door, he's not in the frame of mind to deal with her either. But the knocking persists and he's no choice but to answer.

He finds the cook staring at him eye to eye and her expression tells him that she's not going anywhere. Wordlessly, he stands aside and allows her in, closing the door behind her. He motions for her to sit and she takes the chair beside his.

"First let me say that I am not here to row with you." Charles breathes a sight of relief at these words because he isn't sure if he has the strength for one of Beryl's frontal assaults. She was always more clever with words than he anyway. "But I am here to say that I've smoothed over your … well, the women understand that you are grieving. Charlie, as someone who's known you since you were a lad, you need to get away from this place for a while. Go to the seaside. To your parents. Somewhere. I know Mrs. Crawley suggested it and you weren't keen, but none of us can go on like this. I think it will do you some good."

"I don't know if I should." The protest is weak. He knows that she is right. He's made everyone miserable.

"You're due some time. Take it. And while you're gone, if you like, I can take care of her things so that when you get back you can have a fresh start without all of these reminders."

"As long as I am here there will be reminders, Beryl." Simply removing some personal effects will not remove Sarah from the place. She's more a part of the place than he.

"I know."

Charles takes a long moment to consider. There is more weighing on his mind than he's told anyone. Than he can tell Beryl.

"Perhaps a I should take few days away," he finally says.

* * *

A/N: As you see this chapter is arranged differently than the other chapters and for a reason. I am trying not to include Author's Notes so that the story reads as a novel might. Thank you for your reviews. I haven't gotten to quite everyone yet, but will today. Thank you for reading. The story will begin to deviate from the Tumblr version next chapter. Reviews are appreciated. And please excuse any errors. X


	6. Chapter 6: Balm

A/N: It's been forever but ... life and writing is hard. I am going to finish this. I've just decided to sit down and do it. If you are still with me thank you and if you are new, welcome. Please pardon errors; I just need to get it out there

* * *

Charles

Though the distance between Downton Village Workhouse, on the outskirts of town, and the grounds of Downton Abbey are but a stone's throw, for Charles Carson the distance is as far as the east is from the west. His parent's cottage on the estate of Downton Abbey is comforting, a place of solace and he's barely placed his hand to the door before his mother, Addie, flings it open, and pulls him inside.

Addie Carson is a robust woman, tall, with dark eyes lined with thick lashes, her cheekbones high, chiseled, her features refined. Her raven-colored hair is upswept and elegant, her clothing simple and modest, but she's well-kept; a woman who takes pride in herself. Addie is well-read, a devout woman, and well-thought of on the estate and in the village.

"Oh, Charlie, it's so good to see you," she gushes as she sizes him up and takes his bag. "You've not been eating, but it's no wonder …" She trails off sadly. It's been months since the Carson's have seen their son; last seeing him in the immediate days after Sarah and the baby's funeral. The tear that falls from his mother's eye brings pangs of guilt for having secluded himself away behind the walls of the Workhouse using work as an excuse to retreat into his grief.

Before he can object very much Addie has cast aside his bag in the hallway and is already bustling about in the kitchen, reminding him very much of Mrs. Patmore back "home." She's plating up a sandwich and pouring a tall glass of milk and soon she's sat at the kitchen table expecting him to join her.

"Mum, really. You didn't have to go to the trouble." He protests softly, but his mother's countenance brooks no conversation on the matter and Charles tucks into the sandwich and washes it down with a large gulp of milk. He knows that he's being overly sentimental but there is definitely something comforting about having his mother take of him.

"You dad is up at the Abbey, speaking with His Lordship, but he'll be back soon. I know that he'll be glad to have you home for a few days working with him again."

Charles simply nods and gives her a crooked half-smile as he bites off another hunk of sandwich.

He's glad to be home too.

* * *

Elsie and Becky

Their rented room at the Fox and the Hare is serviceable, but tiny and dingy and barely big enough for the battered wardrobe and the double bed much less the wash basin that's casually situated in one corner. Renting a room above a public house is not ideal, but Elsie has't much choice considering their circumstances.

The sale of the farm hadn't yielded as much money as Elsie had hoped. Upon listing the farm for sale, she had found out that, after her father's death, her mother had borrowed against the property and was still owing.

The Fox and the Hare isn't a grand establishment by any standard, and it's walls are paper thin. Trying not to think of the familiar voices she hears in the rooms nearby, Elsie tries to ignore the lust-filled voice of His Lordship's second-eldest son and his giggling female companion as they stumble up the stairs and fall into the room next to the one she and Becky occupy.

Thankful that Becky is a sound sleeper, Elsie sighs as she turns over onto her stomach. Try as she might, the couple in the other room aren't shy and their "encounter" keeps her wide awake until the young man falls asleep. She hopes that her appointment at Parkside Hall brings good news and that this is the last night she and Becky spend in this place.

* * *

The atmosphere in Mrs. Corbin's sitting room is not unpleasant, but it's decidedly more formal than Parkside Hall's former head housemaid would like. The housekeeper's manner is perfectly cordial, kind even, as she offers Elsie and Becky tea and biscuits, kind conversation, and her sympathies on the loss of their mother; she gives a listening ear. But Elsie senses that the housekeeper is a bit highly strung, as if she's worried about something. But then, Elsie is a bit overwhelmed herself.

"Elsie, I'm sorry," the housekeeper begins quietly, "but as you know that there isn't a place for a housemaid who has family. I took the liberty of approaching her ladyship, but Parkside isn't quite ready for a maid who has family living in or a maid who lives out and comes into work. I'm very sorry." Elsie sees the tears in the old woman's eyes and knows that the words are not hollow, that the sentiment is real.

"I understand." She hears herself say the words and she does understand, though she does not think it fair. How is she expected to support Becky and herself if she cannot do what she is trained to do? Elsie looks over to Becky who sits quietly with a cup of tea and nibbles on a chocolate biscuit, oblivious to their dire circumstances. "I shouldn't have put you in an awkward position Mrs. Corbin, but I'm in desperate need for work. So, if you hear of anything, we are staying at the Fox and the Hare in the village," Elsie finishes quietly as she places her tea cup and saucer onto the table nearby.

"Well, as a matter of fact, I do have a sister who has a hotel in Downton Village and Elsie, I hope that you don't mind, but I told her of your situation. If you're agreeable, there is a position for you."

"I don't know how to thank you," Elsie cries as she reaches out and grasps the housekeeper's hand.

"It's not a full-time housemaid position so there aren't any meals included and you won't live in, but there is a small flat for you and Becky at a reduced cost so that you can stay together."

Elsie is reduced to tears and she cannot quite find the words to express her joy at her new prospects. It's the first good news she's had since before she received the letter from Uncle Rab summoning her home. The job may not be much, but it's a beginning and she and Becky can stay together which is more than she has expected.

* * *

A Review would be lovely. It encourages the writer so. Thank you


	7. Chapter 7: A Chance Meeting

Chapter Seven

A Chance Meeting

 **Downton Village, Rose Cottage**

The flat that Elsie rents in Downton is not much bigger than the room that she shared with Alice Martin one of the housemaids back at her former post back at Parkside Hall. But it is clean and serviceable and there's a garden out back with a few rose bushes she can tend. The flat is big enough for two single beds, a wardrobe, a wash basin, a serviceable kitchen table, cupboard, and an open-hearth fire. There is a common outdoor privy, shared with the family who lives upstairs, and Mrs. Thomas who owns Rose Cottage at 5 Doubleleg Walk made sure that a fresh coat of paint was applied to the walls before the Hughes sisters arrived. She's told Elsie that she can decorate the little flat the way that she sees fit. Not that the Hughes sisters have much in the way of decorations or extra money to spare for the purchase of any, but Elsie's put out some family pictures and the things of their parents that they brought down from Scotland. Mrs. Thomas reduces Elsie's rent by a few shillings each month since Elsie washes and irons the linens and cleans rooms mornings and on Saturdays at the hotel she owns over on the better side of town. The side of town that those who wear fine clothes, eat at the best restaurants, and have money to burn pile into.

Upstairs, lives Jane Moorsum, a kind soul, with bright eyes and a matching smile. Elsie isn't sure what her story is, but beneath Jane's smile is a sadness that she's not spoken of. Jane has a young child, a dark-haired, blue-eyed, chubby-cheeked little boy. He's a stout little chap, with rosy cheeks, and he's happy most of the time. And then there's the visitor who comes once a fortnight or so; the little boy looks like this man in miniature and Elsie wonders if this man isn't where Jane's sadness lies.

Jane also works for Mrs. Thomas, cleaning rooms, on the afternoon shifts. But she does no wash, no ironing, and Elsie wonders how she makes ends meet. How she stays out of the workhouse like so many other mothers whose boys have no father then she remembers the well-dressed man who pays Jane and Robbie semi-regular visits.

Not that Elsie hasn't heard rumors, because of course she has; wherever she's been, Elsie has always been one for a secret, always one who knows what is going on around her. She's heard the whispers that Jane's boy, called Robbie, a nickname for Robert, is the bastard son of the Lord Grantham over at the Abbey.

When she's blending into the the fabric at the hotel, being neither seen nor heard while she navigates the endless maze of hallways, Elsie's heard the society women talking behind Cora Crawley's back. And of course, there are the other maids, the hotel staff who love nothing more than a good gossip about one of their own. She's heard talk that Jane once worked as a housemaid at Downton and that the young Earl had taken a particular interest in the pretty young woman.

But Elsie likes Jane. She's a kind soul when the world lacks kindness.

* * *

 **The Stables, Downton Abbey Estate, Sunday, Early Morning**

"Young Timothy should be doing that."

John Carson, His Lordship's head groom, stands framed in the doorway of the stall Charles mucks out. He's tall and lean with a shock of silver hair covered by a dark hat and his face framed by a clipped beard and mustache. Arms folded across a broad chest and his right shoulder leaned heavily against the stall's thick brass finial, the elder Carson cuts an imposing figure and though the voice is gruff, there is kindness and empathy in his eyes. The same traits that others recognize in Charles; the traits that are now missing, pushed down and buried since he buried his wife and child.

"I doubt he'll mind," Charles replies, eyebrow raised, as he continues his work with vigour.

"I doubt he will," John laughs wryly. "My father always said that a bit of hard labor was good for a man. Especially when he had something on his mind."

"Granddad was a clever man." Charles continues scraping and shoveling, a silence developing between father and son before Charles suddenly stops, wipes his sweaty brow with his forearm and then leans heavily against the shovel, his eyes unfocused staring out over his father's shoulder at the early morning's murky sky.

"Charlie, it's been three months now …"

"… I'm doing better."

"You aren't. Your mum says that you aren't going to church, that you hardly leave the workhouse, and that you thunder around the place frightening the staff … "

"How does she know those things?" Charles unfolds himself from the shovel that has been his crutch and stands it in a corner. "Beryl Patmore!" he explodes in realization, his voice carrying throughout the stable. "That woman is always meddling in someone's business!"

"Beryl has known you since you were a boy. She loves you as a brother," John explains, "Don't fault her for her concern."

"I don't fault her for her concern. I fault her for her … for her …" Charles pauses, blinks his eyes hard several times trying to reign in his emotions.

"She only means to help," his father intercedes. Charles leans heavily against the wall of the stall, his arms draped over the short wall, and his head hung low. "Charles," John calls quietly as he places a hand to his son's shoulder, "there is a time to grieve, God knows there is, and no man has a right to tell another how long, but you must begin to live again." Charles shoulders begin to shake and John gives his son a reassuring pat. "When you're ready, Mum has breakfast waiting and we'll be off to church later. Perhaps it will do you some good to get out and see people."

* * *

 **Saint Michael's and All Angel's Church, Downton**

Elsie enjoys the respite of church. Enjoys the time to think and reflect. The time to pray; to commune with God. And, she hates to admit it, she enjoys the time to herself. Jane is good to watch after Becky on Sunday mornings long enough for Elsie to attend morning services and Elsie returns the favour when Jane needs someone to watch after young Robbie. Becky's not been the same since they left Scotland, she's quiet and withdrawn with the occasional fits of temper when she's frustrated and Elsie's nerves are a bit on edge. But when they visit with Jane and Robbie, Becky and Robbie get on, playing with his blocks or the tossing the ball to the stray dog that made itself to home a while back. So, Sunday mornings and church fellowship are a welcome respite from the norm. But this morning Reverend Travis is droning on and she's not particularly interested. She's only been in Downton a few months but he's already repeating sermons. Elsie wonders if he's losing his touch, if he's grown old and ready to retire. Instead she's focusing on the congregation and who she knows and doesn't know.

She sees the older couple who always sit on the second row from the front on the right side. He's a distinguished man with graying hair, a white mustache, and spectacles. She, a well-kept woman in tailored clothes and tasteful jewelry. Elsie thinks that he's a banker perhaps, or the owner of the newspaper. And then there is another couple who sits further back. She's known from the moment that she first saw the husband that she didn't like him. His mouth is always curved into a frown beneath a mustache and he always holds his chin a little higher than necessary. Elsie's has heard that his name is Bryant, that he is new money, and has bought his way into respectable society. She's heard some of the men, when they've retired to the hotel's men's lounge to smoke their cigars and discuss business, deride the man for his tactics of running roughshod over those whom he employs. His wife, Elsie has heard, is a nice woman, kind and sympathetic. Long-suffering some say. They have one child a son, Charlie, who is spoiled and entitled. A bit of a lad who tom-cats around town visiting the Dog and Duck's upstairs rooms and word has it that he treats the girls there badly.

And then Elsie's attentions are drawn to the man who sits next to her. He's hard not to notice. He is tall with broad shoulders, wavy black hair, beetle browed, and carrying a sad expression. She's not noticed him in church before, but she knows who he is and she's spoken with the woman and man who sit just to his right. Elsie and the Carsons sit next to one another most Sundays yet they've not said much to one another past "Good Morning. How are you?" "Good to see you, Miss Hughes." "Likewise Mr. Carson, Mrs. Carson." Elsie knows that Mr. Carson is His Lordship's Head Groom and beyond that not much more except that the couple is pleasant and cordial, that they both are quite well respected, and that the man with them is their only living son son, Charles.

From the occasional brief conversation with his mother and the things she hears around the village, Elsie knows that the younger Mr. Carson is the Master of the Workhouse and that he has lost his wife and that his mother worries about him. Elsie almost never sees him out, not like the other men in town who visit the pubs and have dinner in the restaurants or at the hotel. She's never seen him about town with a lady companion and most certainly never heard of him visiting those fallen women that occupy the houses that respectable women whisper about.

There is gossip about town that he's a catch and that widows and women who've never married have tried to catch his attention, but that he stays holed up in his office at the workhouse, married to his job.

Elsie feels sorry for him. She remembers the stabbing pains of grief. She remembers how when Joe Burns died while they were walking out, her heart had dissolved into a thousand pieces.

And then, just as she is lost in thought, Mr. Carson catches her out. He nods his head and offers a pleasant smile and Elsie's cheeks tinge pink. He's very handsome she thinks; then she feels guilty, the poor man's a widower after all and still in love with his wife. She returns the smile and then looks down to her prayer book that's been open to the same page for half an hour.

* * *

Thank you to all who've read and left a review. If I have not gotten back with you please forgive me and to my guest reviewers to whom I cannot respond personally, Thank You so very much.


	8. Chapter 8: The Post Office

A/N: Thank you all for the reviews, follows, reblogs, and likes on Tumblr. I'm sorry that I haven't responded for the reviews for the last chapter, but please know that I have read and appreciate, covet, each one. Thank you! Especially to the Guest Reviewers who I cannot thank personally: Thank You!

All of the names used in this story for residents of the workhouse are taken from real workhouse residents. Through research I've selected real names and real situations to add authenticity to the story. The character of "Friend Carter" in this chapter is one such example. Also, residents of the workhouses were called inmates in the official literature; that speaks volumes about the system.

After this chapter, we will begin to see Downton characters appear more frequently again.

* * *

 **Chapter Eight**

 **The Post Office**

 _Three months later .._

The new Matron, Mrs. Brown, a widower of some years, isn't up to snuff. Charles cannot make heads nor tails out of her ledgers; endless columns of numbers and names running together nonsensically. Trying to untangle the figures in Mrs. Brown's order book is akin to picking out the threads of a tangled spider's web – impossible. Though the days he spent with his parents were a balm to his injured heart, the frustration he presently feels is quickly eroding the good will that he had been building since leaving the grounds of the Abbey.

Charles huffs in frustration as he looks around his office and sees a light coating of dust on the filing cabinet beside his desk. Clearly, Mrs. Brown does not have a handle on her girls. They may be "residents" of the workhouse, but they are to properly complete the task to which they've been assigned. And much to Charles's consternation, Mrs. Brown isn't making her rounds at the prescribed times often at quarter past the hour instead of on the hour as is scheduled. For the workhouse to operate at maximum efficiency Charles argues, everything must adhere to the schedule that he's set out.

Charles leans back in his chair and scrubs a hand across his brow. He knows that he's made a mistake in hiring Mrs. Brown and can only attribute the mistake to hiring her whilst not in his right mind being overcome with grief. She's a kind woman, but unfit for the job.

"Mrs. Brown," he begins, his fingers steepled atop his office desk. "We have a precise schedule for the day so that order is kept among both staff and those poor unfortunate people that we help. If we do not follow that schedule, then chaos will ensue and we cannot have chaos. You must set the example Mrs. Brown." Charles sets quite the imposing figure in his black suit, starched white shirt and collar, and his tightly knotted black tie. His countenance is serious, stern even, and his voice deep and commanding. Mrs. Brown is the second Matron hired since Sarah's death six months ago and Charles has found fault with her at every turn.

"Mr. Carson, I do my best to attend to all of my duties in the most expeditious manner possible. I'm not sure what more that I can do," Mrs. Brown replies meekly.

"Well, then …" Charles replies, his jaw set firmly, his head tilted, and eyes boring into hers.

"I see," she replies. "Shall I work out a notice?"

"I don't think that will be necessary. You'll have two weeks' severance," he replies cooly.

Mrs. Brown leaves without so much as another word and closes the door to Charles's office behind her. Charles sits in silence for several long moments before he reaches for the photograph on his desk and pulls it close. Gently, he smoothes a finger over the edge of the frame and he sighs. He wonders if life will ever be the same again. If he will ever be the same again. With a thud, Charles closes Mrs. Brown's ledger and pushes it to the side of his desk. He'll try to decipher it later after he's had a sandwich and a cup of strong, black coffee. He pushes back from his desk and grabs his overcoat and hat from the rack by the door then makes his way to find Mr. Turner, the porter.

Charles checks with Mr. Turner that everything is in order, that the male inmates are working to crush stones; Downton's roads seem to always need resurfacing, potholes and grooves from carts and buggies need filling. Some of the men are assigned to break gypsum to be sold for a profit to workmen who plastered walls for a living wage. The infirm, the men who are either too old to swing an ax and chop wood or too old to man the grindstone to mill corn, work on simple, mindless tasks. Charles feels sorry for them especially old Friend Carter, who lost his farm and then checked himself into the workhouse so he'd not be a burden to his family in his old age.

"Good morning, Friend," Charles says warmly with a pat to the older man's shoulder.

"Good morning Mr. Carson. How are you?" Friend and Charles share a knowing look. Friend lost his wife just two years ago and was one of the first to express his sympathies to Charles and one of the few "residents" of the workhouse to attend the funeral.

"I'm doing better," Charles offers with a small smile and a nod.

"I hope so, Mr. Carson and I hope that I'm not being impertinent," the old man offers, "but if I might offer you a bit of advice?" Charles nods, signaling Mr. Carter to continue. "You have a straightforward choice. You must choose … either life or death. And I don't think that your wife, nor mine would have wanted us to choose the second. They loved us too much."

Charles can't stop the tears that spring to his eyes. He claps old Friend Carter on the back and thanks him for his wisdom, assuring him that his candor was no impertinence. Charles _is_ better, the pain isn't quite so sharp as it once was, though he thinks often of Sarah and the little boy she bore.

Politely excusing himself, Charles sets out for the village. With every footstep he thinks of Friend Carter, the man who'd lost so much, but refuses to let unhappiness pull him under.

* * *

The bouquet of flowers rests against the singular headstone that marks the grave of mother and son. Sarah and Charlie are buried together with Charlie cradled in the arms of his loving mum. Charles stands stock still before the monument that has been freshly fixed into place. _"Six months_ ," Mr, Mosley senior, keeper of the church grounds and overseer of the cemetery, told him. " _Six months for the grave to settle before the stone can be set."_

Six months. In some ways, it seems as if it were just yesterday; in others it seems an eternity. Charles stares at the monument and for the first time since the funeral the truth hits home. While his memories live in his heart, his past is buried in the churchyard. The words of Mr. Carter whir through his mind. _You must choose … either life or death._

* * *

Thomas Wigan fills the pigeonholes with letters, bills, and payments to creditors as his wife Ellen works the front desk and greets patrons. Ellen Wigan would never be caught behind the scenes, in the back room, where the work is monotonous, the motions repetitive and mind numbing; no, she leaves that to her husband who doesn't seem to mind. Ellen Wigan is a nosy sort and a gossip who spreads the information she gleans from the chit-chat she overhears among those who don't realize that she's listening.

The post office is busy even for a Wednesday and Charles queues with the rest of the crowd. He pulls the paper with the wording for the advertisement for the position of matron from the breast pocket of his coat and reads over it again. Mr. Wigan is always good to post employment advertisements on the notice board inside the post office and Charles has another for the notice board outside. Charles sighs as he hears Mrs. Wigan whispering with Mrs. Adams. He only hears snippets of their conversation.

The topic of their conversation is Lady Jane Liddle-Smith , the wife of Lord William Liddle-Smith who is twenty-years her senior at the age of fifty. Lady Jane has become the source of drawing room gossip all over the county and even those in the workhouse have whispered about her. From what Charles gathers Lady Jane has been carrying on with a man of the cloth a few towns over; their clandestine meetings at the rectory are the talk of the village.

"Midnight communion I suppose," Mrs. Wigan sniggers.

"If that woman's tongue wags much harder, I think that it might well fall off." The melodic Scottish drawl voice floats over Charles's shoulder. He cannot help but chuckle at the exasperated sentiment expressed by the woman behind him as he turns to greet her.

"And wouldn't we all be grateful for that," he affirms. "Good morning Miss Hughes," he greets Elsie with a nod of the head.

"Good morning Mr. Carson, it's nice to see you. I hope that you're well," she replies. Elsie thinks that Mr. Carson does look well; at least, he looks much better than he has at church the past several months at church. His smile, which she's rarely seen, is quite a treat; the slightest tug of his lips upward, his cheeks are pink and full, and his eyes are soft.

"I'm well, Miss Hughes" Charles replies.

"That's good to hear Mr. Carson." Elsie is genuinely pleased for Charles's improved state.

Though she cannot fathom the loss of a spouse and a child, she knows what it is to feel despair and pain. Her heart breaks for poor Becky who hasn't spoken much since the death of their mother. If she was shy and quiet before, she is almost silent now. Elsie has noticed that increasingly more often, Becky wraps her arms tightly around herself and rocks herself until she is soothed. The bright spot in Becky's day seems to be when she is with Jane's boy, Robbie; Elsie marvels at her sister's gentleness with the boy.

Charles makes his way to the front of the line where Mrs. Wigan tries strike up conversation and Elsie cannot help but snigger a bit as Charles politely asks for her husband. A bit put out, the postmistress huffs and turns to go find her husband who quickly appears and takes care begins to take care of Charles's business. The two men talk amiably and Mrs. Wigan calls Elsie up to the counter beside Charles.

"Good morning Miss Hughes."

"Good morning Mrs. Wigan," Elsie replies as she reaches into her handbag to retrieve the letters that she is posting.

"I haven't seen your sister out and about much," the postmistress inquires as she accepts the letters that Elsie passes across the counter to her. "Is she … _all right_?" The last words are a whisper and Elsie bristles at the obviously indelicate insinuation.

"She is, Mrs. Wigan. Thank you for asking," Elsie answers tersely. She knows that the woman is fishing, but Elsie is damned if she'll make Becky the fodder for local gossip. She's never been ashamed of her sister, Becky is as intelligent as any other in her own way, but Elsie knows that people don't readily accept those who are different and she'll not subject Becky to the whispers of the village children and their parents.

While she waits for Mrs. Wigan to retrieve the stamps that she's purchased, Elsie feels a slight nudge against her arm and looks over to Mr. Carson who sheepishly begs her pardon as he replaces his wallet in his pocket and re-buttons his overcoat. Elsie notices that his cheeks have the sweetest blush and she feels her own respond in kind. It's been an age since a man has made her blush and she hasn't the faintest notion why just a mere glance and a brush of Mr. Carson's arm has made her unsteady. Though she sits next to Charles and his parents at church services, they've barely spoken more than five minutes to one another at any given time and certainly discussed nothing personal.

Charles completes his business and says a word of thanks to Mr. Wigan before bidding good day and making his past those remaining in line. Though he's no reason to wait outside the post office as he's given the advertisement to Mr. Wigan, Charles finds himself absentmindedly scanning the notice board himself.

"A penny for them Mr. Carson," Elsie calls as she walks up beside him.

"I'm not sure that they are worth as much," he chuckles.

"I doubt that," she replies sincerely.

Charles looks down at his feet and shuffles them a bit. He's nervous, not that the woman standing before him makes him nervous, quite the opposite, but it's been ages since he's thought of asking a woman to share a pot of tea and conversation. But Elsie Hughes is a woman with kind eyes and something tells him that she has a sympathetic spirit about her, that she perhaps has a damaged heart as well.

"Miss Hughes," he stammers, "would you care to join me for cup of tea at Mrs. Sloane's shop?"

 **tbc ...**


	9. Chapter 9: The Tea Shop

Chapter Nine

Mrs. Sloane's Tea Shop

Mrs. Sloane's shoppe is cozy and well-appointed. Several small tables covered with crisp white linen table cloths are arranged throughout the room; a vase of fresh flowers from her garden placed in the center of each table adds a bit of elegance to the place. While not The Netherby, it's certainly a step up from The Grantham Arms. It is a place where dignified people go to enjoy a piece of cake, a piece of tart, a place of biscuits, or a sandwich and a cup of tea. Mrs. Sloane's isn't an establishment for a pint of beer or even a glass of wine or for those looking for any kind of trouble.

Violet Sloane is an attractive woman. Of medium height she's a slight woman with once blondish hair now streaked with white, and twinkling green eyes, hidden behind wire-rim spectacles. The wife of local school teacher, George, her family has lived in Downton longer anyone can remember.

Elsie and Charles have ordered a dish of apple crisp each and whilst Elsie's ordered a cup of tea, Charles prefers coffee with a slash of milk and two cubes of sugar. Elsie notices that her companion has a sweet tooth and files that bit of knowledge away. She's not sure when, if ever she'll ever need to draw on it again, but being observant and taking into account people's likes and dislikes is just who Elsie is, who she's always been. Mrs. Corbin once told her that the skill of making people comfortable would serve her well when she became housekeeper at Parkside Hall. Unfortunately, being housekeeper is a dream unrealized; one Elsie tries not to think of.

"Mmm, this apple crumble is very good," Charles smiles and closes his eyes as he relishes a spoonful of the treat. For a moment, he is taken back to his boyhood and in his mind's eye he sees his mother bustling 'round the kitchen of their cottage gathering apples, freshly churned butter, sugar, flour, and the old mixing bowl that had been handed down from her mother's mother. Thinking back, he still marvels at how she turned all those ingredients into the most delicious crumble.

"My mother's was always a little soggy," Elsie grins. "My grandmother was the baker. My mother never really picked up on it. It requires a certain touch I think."

"I remember once when Sarah and I first married and she burnt an apple crumble so badly that I had to throw it out pot and all," Charles laughs merrily, his belly shaking, and his eyes crinkled in delighted remembrance. He looks down for a moment to catch his breath and when he looks back up, the sunlight streaming in the window catches his glistening eyes.

"You miss her a great deal," Elsie interjects gracefully, saving him from further discomfort.

"I've embarrassed you Miss Hughes," Charles apologizes. He is very uncomfortable that he has allowed himself to show such emotion to a woman who is no more than an acquaintance.

"You've not embarrassed me Mr. Carson." At this Charles settles and his hands stop their nervous fidgeting. "It's good to remember those we love. After all, the business of life is the acquisition of memories. If we don't remember what's written on our hearts what is the good of living?" Elsie continues.

Charles feels his lips tug into the smallest of smiles. With just a few words, this woman has made sense of it all. Not all memories are good, nor are they all bad, but they are written on one's heart and mind. Charles has pushed down the memories of Sarah so that he hasn't thought of anything other than his grief at the loss of her and their child and his nagging feelings of guilt. With his visit to their grave and the kind words of Friend Carter and Miss Hughes, he feels that he may be able to put things into perspective.

"That's very wise Miss Hughes."

"We all carry scars inside or out Mr. Carson." Charles is unsure of what she means by this. He knows that her mother recently died and that she has moved her sister down from Scotland to live with her. He wonders if there is more meaning behind her words, something that she isn't saying.

"I should hate that you've experienced such grief." When Charles suddenly realizes that he may sound impertinent and personal he bashfully looks down into his plate of half eaten crumble.

Elsie shakes her head just the slightest bit at Mr. Carson and herself as they struggle to make conversation with one another without becoming shy and embarrassed. It's been quite some time since she's sat across a table in a tea shop and made small talk with a gentleman friend and she wonders if perhaps she is the first woman since his wife's death with whom Mr. Carson has shared tea.

"Mr. Carson, I've enjoyed our tea, truly, but I must be getting on," Elsie mentions as she looks at the watch pinned to her coat. "I've to collect some linens that need mending from the hotel and then embroider numbers on others. Rotating linens is a never-ending business," she laughs lightly.

"So you are a seamstress?" Charles inquires, his curiosity piqued.

"No. I work as a maid. I clean rooms and see to the linens at the hotel. In my previous position, I was head housemaid at Parkside Hall and, well, the tasks are much the same." She hopes that he doesn't ask much more about her life. Elsie isn't interested in explaining why she's left service when so many young women are envious of a position in a great house and the security that it brings. Once, only six months ago, she was one of those girls, thankful for the certainty of three meals a day, a regular wage, and a roof over her head.

"Did you not enjoy your position in service?"

And he has asked the question that she's hoped he would not. She doesn't wish to explain why she left service. That she left because she has an invalid sister who isn't quite right and who needs constant care and that they've no family left to tend her. That she's given up the independence that her mother instilled in her and given up a career that she's worked so very hard for because Becky needs her more. Elsie doesn't tell many people about Becky or her condition. She cannot afford to let her guard down because when she has, people have been cruel to Becky or told her that imbeciles belong in an asylum.

" … Mr. Carson, it's so nice to see you again. We've just made some ginger crisps and I thought that you'd like to take some home. I know how you enjoy them." Elsie breathes a sigh of relief as Mrs. Sloane presses a packet of ginger crisps into Charles's hand and the conversation is diverted.

After Mrs. Sloane excuses herself, Charles slides the packet across the table and draws Elsie's attention to them. "Take them to your sister Miss Hughes; a treat." Elsie is overwhelmed at the small kindness that Mr. Carson has extended to her sister, a woman he's never seen nor met. She accepts his gift and tucks them away in her handbag for safekeeping.

"Thank you Mr. Carson. I'm sure that she'll enjoy them just as I've enjoyed …" she fumbles for the appropriate words before she settles on " … sharing apple crumble and pleasant conversation."

"So have I Miss Hughes," Charles concurs noticing the pretty blush coloring his companion's cheeks. "So have I."

 **tbc ...**


	10. Chapter 10: Distractions

Chapter Ten:

Distractions

 _She reaches down into the coldness, her hands searching, desperately grasping._

 _Nothing._

 _Nothing but empty, cold, darkness. Her hands burn as if she's touched hot flame and she flinchingly recoils. Peering down, she searches. Flat, black water, so murky that the moon refuses to shine upon it, and so she sheds her shoes, and then her stockings. She casts them aside with little care or concern. Plunging in, she breaks the surface. Breath leaves her lungs in one searing gasp as if a thousand swordsmen have plunged in their daggers at once, but then behind her closed eyes her mother's face appears and her voice fills her ears and she calms._

 _Sinking down, she reaches out. Fingers stretching, fingertips searching. At last. Just there. Yes. Just there. She reaches just further. Come on. Come on Becks, reach just a little. Try. Try for Els. Come on. That's it. Good girl._

 _Hand in hand, Elsie kicks hard for the surface. She ignores the cold, the searing frigid pain in her bones, and she pushes to break the surface._

 _At last. The surface of a clear water breaks and the sun shines behind broken clouds._

 _Sisters sit on a sandy beach._

Her work at Kirkgate House is a distraction. A distraction from the dream that plagues her sleep and the worry that Becky is continuing to slip away under the surface of a dark abyss where Elsie, reaching down to snatch her up, one day, will not be able to save her. As Elsie smoothes the linens across the bed, she hums an old work song that she learnt whilst at the feet of her grandmother on the old farm. Soon, the melancholy is driven away and she's smiling. It's a nice feeling, the pull of her cheeks into an upward curve, the crinkle of her eyes in happiness. Elsie knows that even though times are hard, that things aren't ideal, that she has it better than many. She has a stable position, a roof over her head, and can provide for Becky. And the church bazaar is Saturday. Perhaps she will see Mr. Carson. He's often the subject of another series of dreams, much more pleasant ones.

Weeks have passed since their visit to the tea shop and their conversations at church have become more personal, more than the requisite _Good Morning_ or _How are you?_ He inquires after her sister; shows an interest in her position at the hotel. She asks after his well-being and of how the search for the new workhouse matron is going.

For some reason, Mr. Charles Carson has found a place in her heart, if only in guarded friendship, though she thinks it foolish to even fathom it. She knows that he certainly doesn't feel the same about her.

Kneeling, pulling the corner of the sheet tight, she's busy about her work when the door opens.

"I'm sorry sir," Elsie apologizes, turning around, and scrambling to her feet. "I'm just finishing up. The front desk should have sent you to another room. Perhaps I can do that for you."

"I'm sure there are a great many things that you can do for me," the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, well-dressed man drawls, as he sets down his case. "But another room isn't one of them. I'll wait whilst you finish."

Her skin raising in gooseflesh, Elsie breathes in deeply trying to remain calm. As a woman in service she's always been on guard about things like this: being alone in a room with a man, especially a man who's looking at her the way this man is looking at her now. She's heard of maids being attacked by men who present themselves to be gentlemen, only to corner them in a dark corridor or coax them into a stateroom before shoving a hand across their mouths and attacking them.

"But sir, it isn't really the way things are done," she replies, her tone insistent yet polite. She reaches for the bell pull next to the bed and knows that a porter will arrive soon. "If you wish to have this particular room, you'd be much more comfortable waiting in the Gold Room whilst I tidy the room."

Elsie watches as the man's eyes rake over her; he's sizing her up and she's frightened. _Where is that porter?_

Finally, the knock at the door comes and Elsie breathes again. The man who's paid for the room smirks; he knows that his plans have been thwarted.

"Mr. Carlisle, how may I help?" the porter asks cheerfully.

"Jack, I have not completed the room quite yet and the front desk sent Mr. Carlisle down early," Elsie explains as she moves toward the door. "Perhaps you could see him to the Gold Room and arrange something for his inconvenience? Perhaps a nice …"

" … whisky neat," Richard Carlisle supplies with a tight smile.

* * *

Shelves filled with books and ledgers containing all the names of every person who has entered the gates of Downton Workhouse whether inmate or employee and the large oak desk that sits squarely in the center of the room, heavy and foreboding make Charles Carson's office an intimidating place to be and the man who sits behind the desk is looking particularly imposing himself this morning. Charles sits with his fingers laced across his stomach and his eyes are squinted in concentration as he listens to the woman in front of him rattle off her qualifications for the position of matron. She's the fourth applicant he's interviewed and if he's honest with himself he hopes that this woman may be the right woman for the job. He's tired of searching and none of them have been exactly right.

He has interviewed one widow who he didn't think would have the stomach for the job; she was too soft-hearted, and Charles saw tears in her eyes when he took her on a tour of the women's ward. A matron certainly needs sympathy to be sure, but she mustn't cry at the sight of every woman wracked with rheumatism who struggles to thread the needles and repair sheets or linens. And It would not do for her to weep when forced to separate mothers from their children when the children have to attend school or move to separate quarters. While he may be sympathetic, Charles can't change rules the government makes.

The third woman he interviewed was a young woman who had yet to marry. Charles knew that she would not stay long, that some young man would catch her eye and she would soon turn in her notice and he would be on the search for yet another woman to fill the position of matron. Or worse, he would have to worry that she would slip down to the men's quarters late at night and engage in activity unbecoming to the character of a workhouse matron.

His mind wanders to Miss Hughes. He's heard, because he hears everything, that her character is impeccable, and that she's a good worker, and that the other maids at the Kirkgate House respect her. He certainly respects her. He enjoys her presence next to him at church and their little discussions. She's a bit opinionated, but all the important women in his life are. He wonders why she hasn't applied for the job of matron. Surely, it would mean a pay increase and surely, she would covet the job security. Were they not sufficient enough friends for her to even contemplate it?

But this woman who sits before him seems to suit the job. She is the right age; neither too young nor too old. She's unmarried but neither on the search for a husband either. She has been married to the positions that she has previously had - devoted to her work by all accounts and good at it.

Before he offers her the position, Charles purses his lips and he considers all the he's been told. Shifting forward, he shuffles through the character references she's presented. Everything seems in order and he recognizes some of the names, so he has no reason to doubt them. Nonetheless, something niggles at him. He's somewhat off put by the dark-haired spindly woman who sits before him. She's a bit of a haughty woman he thinks, what with her head held just a bit too high and the hint of sourness that laces many of her words. He wonders why her last post has an Ireland post and why she's recently moved to Yorkshire. There's a story there he's certain, but her references are in order she's answered his questions satisfactorily.

"Miss O'Brien, the rigors of working here are quite different from those of working in service, you see," Charles begins. "We have all sorts here. And sometimes, there are special cases who require special care. "

Sarah O'Brien simply looks at Mr. Carson and waits for him to continue. She is shrewd enough to remain silent waiting for him to clearly indicate exactly who he means. She knows that all sorts enter workhouses from those who have fallen on hard times, to drunkards, to unmarried women who find themselves alone with no means of support, to widows, and the ill, infirm, and insane. It doesn't matter to her; she sees them all as inferiors, socially and morally. If they were her equals they'd have figured a way to have kept themselves from being degraded and shamed.

"I understand Mr. Carson," she answers. "I think that you'll find that I can complete any task that I am assigned with the upmost integrity and appreciation for the circumstances of our residents."

"Well, then Miss O'Brien, I suppose you may start tomorrow if that is convenient for you," Charles offers as he closes the folio with Sara O'Brien's information.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," she replies.

"I hope that you're prepared to get up to speed quickly Miss O'Brien," Charles replies as he stands and opens the door to his office. "We will be sure to have your rooms tidy for your move. I will send Mr. Jones in the morning to collect your things if that suits?"

"It does."

"Very well. We shall see you then," Charles sees Miss O'Brien out of his office and ushers her down the stairs and to the office of Mrs. Crawley. Valiantly, Isobel Crawley has filled in as Matron. Isobel is a woman who needs to be needed and though she'd never tell Charles, she feels a bit of guilt over Sarah's death. She believes that she should have never waited for Dr. Tapsell to arrive, but instead assisted in performing the cesarean section herself. She'd seen her husband and other doctors perform it often enough. She wonders if she could have helped save the young mother's life.

Charles asks the nurse to show Miss O'Brien to her quarters and to the infirmary. He bids his thanks to his friend, the nurse and heads down to the kitchens to see Mrs. Patmore. He seeks out a piece of treacle tart, a cup of coffee, and a bit of conversation. He's had a tiring morning already. It has been difficult to have finally settled upon someone to permanently take his wife's job; someone who he thinks might stay for some time to come.

"So, you've hired her then?" The ruddy cheeked cook pours two cups of steaming coffee and pushes one toward her old friend Charles. They've known one another since their days at grammar school when Beryl was a chubby sharp-tongued ginger who often brawled on the schoolyard grounds at Downton Grammar.

"I have," Charles answers. "Though I'm not convinced that I like her."

"Why not?"

"She's prickly." The answer elicits raised eyebrows from the cook and both she and Charles chuckle. "Point taken."

"I hope that this can be a new beginning, Charlie. Lord knows we need one around here."

* * *

Hurrying down High Street and away from the hotel, a basket in one hand and her handbag in the other, Elsie Hughes quickly heads for home. So lost in thought, she barely notices the hand pulling her back from the middle of the street as she attempts to cross.

"Just what do you think you're …." Elsie flinches, attempting to pull away.

"I'm sorry Miss Hughes but you were about to step out in front of that lorry."

"Mr. Carson," Elsie sighs deeply upon realization. "I am the one to apologize. I was away with the fairies I'm afraid. I thank you very much." Charles releases his grip on her arm, then smooths the front of his coat.

"You should be more careful," he replies only to find her face twist into a scowl. _Stick your foot in it Charlie_. "I only mean that I should hate for you to be harmed."

"Of course, you did. I am sorry, Mr. Carson," Elsie replies smiling. _Oh, Els. He's a nice man.  
_

"Well, then. I'll be on my way." Charles tips his hat, turns, and begins to walk away.

"Mr. Carson … I really am in your debt," Elsie calls after him. Charles stops and turns toward her. "I'd like to repay your kindness. If you would perhaps like to have supper with my sister and me tonight?"

 _tbc ...  
_

 _A/N: In the spirit of using real names for authenticity. The Kirkgate House is a hotel in Thirsk_


	11. Chapter 11: 5 Double Leg Walk

Chapter 11

5 Double Leg Walk

He's sat at the small kitchen table of the downstairs flat at 5 Double Leg Walk and he nervously fidgets with the cornered edge of his waistcoat. He wonders if he should even be here; if he should be away from the workhouse during the evening hours when new inmates arrive, and supper is served to all assembled. An hour of controlled chaos and Charles is the ringmaster; only tonight he's left Mr. Jones in charge and he's taking supper with Miss Hughes.

His mind runs through the possibility of all the things that could go wrong. But nothing will because his staff is well-trained. He's spent the better part of his eight years as Master insuring that everything runs like a well-oiled machine.

Charles wonders if he should be here in the bosom of another woman's home, sitting at her kitchen table, when his wife's not been dead yet a year. There is something intimate about the notion of a supper invitation at the home of unmarried woman even though she's simply being kind; repaying a debt she's said.

He wonders if people will think it scandalous. If they will think him simply a man in need who's gone to get his leg over with the likes of the pretty Scotswoman.

But Elsie has a spotless reputation. She'd never suggest anything to compromise either of their reputations, even if seeing her bustle about and fussing over their supper makes him feel warm and his chest a little tight.

And it's not as if they are alone. Elsie's sister and the little Moorsum boy are about, but then that dredges up certain feelings in his breast as well. Notions of family and home; of what life outside the workhouse could be.

Charles knows that any reservations about being in Elsie Hughes's kitchen have more to do with the conflicting emotions in swirling in his chest. Miss Hughes is a kind hostess and there's nothing false about her. He's keenly aware of those women who've tried to get their hooks into him; like hawks circling wounded prey. He's seen it happen to men twice his age. Women throwing themselves at the grieving widower hoping to catch a husband.

Elsie isn't one of those women. She's kept their friendship all business, all above board. She's never once tossed him coy glances from beneath batting eyelashes or imposed herself into a situation. No. She's only leant an empathetic ear, a kind smile, and a comforting presence on the seat next to him on Sundays.

"I hope you like shepherd's pie, Mr. Carson." Her voice carrying across the cottage interrupts his thoughts and her shy smile causes his cheeks to warm. She's bustling about the place with practical efficiency, all grace and poise, and he wonders why she's stuck in such a humble place with hardly more than two pennies to rub together from the looks of it. Surely, a woman of such style and grace, and carriage, deserves better than this spartan downstairs flat.

Charles smiles and answers in the affirmative as he watches her gather plates and cups and cutlery for the table. She sets about each place setting with elegant hands and sure movements. He knows that she was a head housemaid once and clearly she likes a well-turned out table.

"Won't your sister and young Robbie be joining us?" Charles asks when he notices that she's set the table for two instead of four.

"When they finish with their picture," Elsie answers softly glancing to the chair situated by the window where Robbie sits in Becky's lap as they doodle on a piece of paper. "Becky's particular that the picture must be completed before she can do anything else." She laughs gently and a soft fondness fills her eyes.

She's not told Charles much except that Becky is special. That she's not quite like others her age and that she needs care. She hasn't told him of the tantrums and then the hours of silence. Of the crying and rocking. She's not told him that Becky's fascinated with cows and butterflies and can tell you all you'd ever care to know about each. She's not told him that for as long as one of them lives, the other will be attached because who is there to help bear this? She feels guilty every time the word burden comes to mind because Becky didn't ask for this and Elsie is all she has. They are all each other has. She hasn't told him these things because her heart is wrapped up in a hard shell where Becky's concerned. She values her friendship with Mr. Carson, but some secrets are to great to share.

He's very appreciative of her efforts and he's told her so in no uncertain terms.

"This shepherd's pie is the best I've had Miss Hughes, but don't tell my mother," Charles grins. Elsie thinks that she hears a little hum of contentment as he pushes in another bite.

"Or Mrs. Patmore!" He supplies, remembering the cook's delicate ego. Both he and Elsie burst into laughter and she draws her hands to her mouth to stifle a fit of giggles.

"I'll not breathe a word Mr. Carson," she assures him. Charles wipes a tear from his eye and for a moment Elsie's dismayed.

"A tear of laughter Miss Hughes," he assures her. "A tear of laughter. I'd forgotten that I could laugh. Thank you for that."

* * *

He's telling her of his parents and his life growing up as the groom's son at the Abbey. She feels a bit guilty for not telling him much about herself but she's always been guarded, she's had to be, a woman in service after all. Though Elsie has friends and acquaintances, it does no good to get especially close to anyone never knowing how long you might stay in the employ of a big house. And then there's always Becky. She's had to be protective of that situation, of her. People are so unkind to those who are different even if they don't especially mean to be. No one needs to know all of your secrets.

She studies Charles, his movements, and his words. She wonders how a man of such well-mannered elegance came to be master of the local workhouse. She wonders how he ended up the manager of the last place on earth people want to be. Be he's not mentioned the workhouse tonight, nor his wife and the little boy that died. Instead he's talked of his boyhood, of a well-loved life on the local country estate.

"So you never thought of entering service then?" It's an impertinence, but she's curious to know how this man who loves the country life found himself cooped up behind the brick and mortar of the workhouse on the outskirts of the village.

He stops talking and his brow knits together.

"Mr. Carson, I shouldn't have …"

"No," Charles replies clapping his hands on his knees, "it's perfectly all right Miss Hughes. I suppose one might wonder why when so many try to stay out of the workhouse, I stay in." There's a gentle tease to his voice and Elsie breathes easier.

"Like many lads, I dreamt of being a famous cricketer and I was on my way until one day I suffered an injury. I came home, tail tucked between my legs, and I needed a job. I was too embarrassed to inquire at the Abbey. Everyone thought I'd one day take over for my father and we'll, I'd made it clear that a life in the stables wasn't for me."

"But we all say things when we're young, surely."

He hums thoughtfully, purses his lips, and then considers.

"I suppose we do," he agrees. And you Miss Hughes. You were destined for certain things."

"Perhaps," she replies quietly before glancing over to Becky. "But life alters things doesn't it Mr. Carson?"

"That it does Miss Hughes," he answers. "And what is the point of living if we don't let life alter us?"

What indeed, she thinks as she considers the man sitting at her kitchen table. What indeed?

tbc…


	12. Chapter 12: The Fair

Chapter Twelve

The Fair

He hasn't looked forward to his half day in longer than he can remember and he feels the walls closing in. He's irritated with everything and everyone is getting on his nerves. Every last one of them. Especially Sarah O'Brien. Charles is beginning to think that perhaps he's made a mistake in hiring the woman. She does her job well enough, of that he has no complaints. But the woman's tongue is as sharp as a razor and she's taken up a friendship with Thomas Barrow who works in the medical ward. Together they are like two vipers feeding off one another's energy, coiled, and ready for the strike. Between the two of them, they haven't one nice thing to say about anyone and treat most of the inmates with aloof indifference. Charles fields at least two complaints a day concerning Miss O'Brien's brusk attitude toward the women in their care.

Charles often sees them, Barrow and O'Brien, as he does now, from the window in his office as he looks out into the courtyard below. From this vantage point he can see every movement, every smirk after a nasty comment, every drag and puff from the cigarettes they share.

Shoulder pushed into the brick wall of the building, with slim, elegant fingers, Barrow reaches into his pocket and fishes out another cigarette. Miss O'Brien takes a long drag off the one perched between her lips, then lets her hand drop to her side, a cloud of smoke creeping from between her lips then she flicks the cigarette's ash with a quick flick of her wrist. Charles wonders why they are friends; on the surface Thomas and Sarah don't seem well-suited. Barrow, dark-haired and handsome, his chin always held a little too proud and O'Brien, plain and dour. Then Charles realizes what binds these two together. Loneliness. Two lonely souls clinging to one another, adrift on the sea of life.

Charles steps away from the window, his displeasure in O'Brien and Barrow evident in the scowl deeply etched into his face. Reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, Charles pulls free his watch and looks at the time. It's late morning and his mind drifts to a certain maid working in a hotel across town and to their plans to meet at the fair tonight.

* * *

Mam once told her that there was no use crying over things that you can't change, best to put that sorrow into hard work, use your grief as fuel to change something that you do have control over.

And Lord knows that she has no control over this.

Because if she could wield the sharp sword of control, she would lift Becky's burden; cut away the pain and heal her broken heart. She would give back her words and encourage her sister to laugh. Elsie grieves the absence of the sweet tinkle of innocent laughter when Becky is amused by something silly. And, she longs to hear the detailed discourses on butterflies that only Becky can gave. But her beloved sister is locked away somewhere in another world.

But with each passing day Becky retreats further into a place that Elsie cannot reach and she feels guilty for having pulled up the stakes and taken Becky away from everything she'd ever known; away from the farm, from the memories and security it held, and from Uncle Rab. Lord knows that if she had any other choice she might have taken it, but Becky is her responsibility now and Elsie provides for her the best way she knows how.

So Mam's words ring in her ears and Elsie completes her rota with a determined vengeance; surely all of her effort will pay off.

Having taken on some mending for a few hotel guests, Elsie packs her basket for home and as she does so, she hums an old work song; one her mother sang while she hung the wash on the line. In her minds' eye she pictures herself doing much the same as her mother once did, scrubbing the stains out of her man's clothes, mending his socks, and tending his family. She's never given much time to this daydream before, never let it take root in her consciousness because she thought her path set, her life in service determined.

But that's all changed now and she's a different woman than she was even a year ago.

And she's thinking more about the man who took supper at her cottage a few nights past.

* * *

The sun slips beneath the horizon and Charles watches the carnival entertainer put the flaming torch near his face. He puffs out his cheeks and seems to catch the fire in his mouth, throwing his head back and blowing a sunset colored flame into the air. Since he was a boy Charles Carson was fascinated by the carnival and its performers; the colorful costumes they wore and the tricks they performed. He magicians were his favorite; they still are. He's awed by the sleight of hand, the smooth facility they have for illusion.

"I'm always amazed by them. By how they seem to harness fire and make it do as they please." Charles smiles as he turns to find Miss Hughes standing behind him.

"Especially when there's very little we have control over," Charles replies as he tips his hat. "Good evening Miss Hughes." Charles offers his arm and Elsie wraps a gloved hand into the crook of his elbow as they set out across the village green, past the carousel, and the games stalls.

"I notice that your sister isn't with you. I hope she's well."

"She's at home. Jane was kind enough give me a bit of a respite," Elsie answers softly, her eyes twinkling. Mr. Carson need not know that Jane practically pushed Elsie out of the house, told her to enjoy herself, and not give them a second thought.

"That was kind of her," Charles replies. "I thought we might take supper at the Grantham Arms and then rejoin the fair afterwards."

* * *

Their table at the Grantham Arms is near the window and as they enjoy their supper they watch passersby. They notice Mrs. Wigan, the postmistress, and her husband approach. Mrs. Wigan, catching a glimpse of Charles and Elsie in the window, almost trips over herself as she gawks in their direction.

"I'm afraid that we will be the talk of the post office tomorrow," Elsie smiles as she tips her head in acknowledgment of the nosy postmistress. Mrs. Wigan has the good graces to smile back in Elsie's direction as Mr. Wigan places a hand on his wife's back and encourages her to her to focus on the path in front of them.

"Hrumph," Charles grumbles. "That woman is always caught up in someone else's affairs. She'd do well to keep her own counsel."

"Well," Elsie soothes, "no matter. We shouldn't let words yet unsaid ruin our evening. And what did she see? Two friends having supper. How scandalous!" Elsie's tinkling laughter causes Charles to ease, erases the scowl from his face, and his shoulders lower; the tension visibly leaving his body.

"So, tell me Miss Hughes," Charles begins before taking a sip of beer from his glass, "I was thinking that you know quite a bit about me, but I don't know much about your life."

"What's to tell, Mr. Carson? I have a sister, who you've met, and I work at the local hotel." She's very charming, it's quite disarming to him. Sitting just there, across the table from him, she's very pretty; her face bathed in candle light, she's all sapphire eyes, high cheekbones, and perfectly swept up hair. The navy blue skirt and light blue blouse she's wearing highlight her dark auburn hair and light up her eyes. Charles feels himself reacting in all sorts of ways, ways that he hasn't felt in some time. A mixture of boyish nervousness and the feelings of a grown man who is very attracted to this woman.

"No one has to know everything Miss Hughes, but I wonder if life has been good to you?"

Elsie lifts the wine glass to her lips and sips. She knows that she's been unfair with him, that she knows far more about him than he knows about her. Putting the glass down, Elsie wets her lips before replying. "Oh, I can't complain, Mr. Carson. I haven't done some of the things I daydreamed of as girl. I haven't traveled, but I've seen a bit of life make no mistake."

"Well a life in service and then working at the hotel, I imagine that you have," Charles agrees with a chuckle. "But I wondered …"

" … You wondered about Becky," Elsie interrupts. Charles nods and it's Elsie's cue to tell about a part of her life that she's kept hidden from most people, feelings that she's kept buried. "When she was born … she's not quite right in the head." She sees pain wash across Charles's face as he looks away for a moment. When she sees his eyebrows knit together and him blink hard as if in thought, she knows he's thinking back to the stillbirth of his son; to the complications that can accompany birth. "While my mother was alive, she looked after her. But when she died …"

"… there was no one but you," Charles answers as he looks up, their eyes meeting.

"Precisely. I was promised the position of housekeeper when Mrs. Corbin retires in a few years, but no house will allow a housekeeper to live out or have a to have a family member living with them. My choice was simple. I left my position as head housemaid, moved Becky here, and I found work that would allow me to take care of her."

"And Jane helps?"

"Yes," Elsie answers softly. "I tend Robbie whilst she works and she returns the favor with Becky when I am working." A sense of dread washes over her as she watches Charles work through everything she's told him. "Mr. Carson, I will certainly understand if you …"

"If I what Miss Hughes?" He answers a bit more harshly than he intends. "If I think that your sacrifice is anything less than noble? That you've put your family first is somehow unbecoming?" Charles reaches across the table and takes her hand. "Miss Hughes I admire what you've done. I see so many people, in similar circumstances, push their family members into the workhouse and then go on about their lives as if they're not to be bothered."

"Well, I …" Elsie isn't sure how she's to respond respond to either his kind words or the act that he hasn't moved his hand from hers. Charles is looking at her with soft eyes and her chest rises and falls in a deep breath; her heart pounding in her chest.

The moment is broken when the girl from the restaurant asks to remove their empty plates. Charles lifts his hand from Elsie's and drinks down the last of his beer. He suggests that they make their way to back to the village green and the fairgrounds.

* * *

Her hand slipped into the crook of his elbow, Elsie and Charles make their way around the fair. They've watched the acrobats and seen the bearded lady; watched the children laugh with abandon at the Punch and Judy show and they've ridden the carousel. Finally, one stall draws Charles's attention and they stop in front of it. The men behind the counter are hawking their wares; a game of skill they claim. Toss the ring and if it encircles the prize, it's yours to keep. It is all very simple they claim and what man doesn't want to win a prize for his lady?

"I ought to start back," Elsie weakly protests. "It's very late for me."

"Oh not yet," Charles pleads. "It's a long time since I've had a girl to show off for at the fair." Charles reaches into his pocket and retrieves a few coins and exchanges them for the three rings he hopes to win a prize with. Tossing the first ring, he misses. Elsie smiles as she watches him concentrate on the second toss. So serious, she thinks.

"We have a winner!" the man in the brightly striped jacket calls out to them. He hands the small rag doll to a beaming Charles.

"Well, ehm, something to remember tonight by."

"I won't need help to remember tonight, Mr. Carson. It's been lovely. Really," Elsie assures him as she accepts the little doll from him. "But I must go."

"Might I walk you home, Miss Hughes?" She knows he's nervous, she can see it in his expression, sees the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

"I would like that very much," she replies her nerves all aflutter.

* * *

"Well here we are. But you know that already don't you," Elsie laughs nervously as they approach her doorstep. If it had been a long time since Charles showed off for a girl at the fair, it has been even longer since a man walked Elsie home from a fair. Mrs. Corbin prohibited "followers" and it has been years since she and Joe Burns walked out.

"Miss Hughes, I hope that this'll not be the last time I'm privileged to walk you home?"

"No, Mr. Carson, I should hope not."

 **So I fixed the carnival scene from canon. This time Charles and Elsie went to the fair like she tried to convince him to do in Series 3. I'm trying to get this one more fully pushed into the main thrust of the plot. If you are inclined, I'd love a note of review.**


	13. Chapter 13: An Atmosphere

A/N: Easing back into this one.

"Is this a public holiday I've not been informed of?" Elsie asks sharply. As senior housemaid over the morning shift, the group of murmuring maids gathered in the east corridor is off-putting. They know that Elsie runs a tight ship, expecting them to conduct their personal business outside of work hours or on the luncheon break. Heaven knows that she was thankful for the promotion three months ago and wants to make a good impression on Mrs. Thomas. Hoping to be promoted to head of housekeeping, it is important to Elsie that Mrs. Thomas feel that the trust she's placed in her is well-deserved.

"Oh Elsie," Mary begins animatedly, her hands fluttering in the air punctuating her emotions. "Didn't she tell you?"

"Didn't who tell me what?" Elsie asks. She's losing patience quickly; if there is one thing Elsie cannot abide it's an atmosphere and there is certainly an atmosphere at Kirkgate House this morning.

"Mrs. Thomas has sold the hotel," Flora answers quietly.

"She never has?" Elsie half exclaims, half questions, her brows knit in confusion.

"And we're wondering if the new owner will keep all of us or if we'll be flung out into the street," Gwen answers in her soft Irish drawl.

"I'm sure it's not as bad as all that," Elsie replies with a tight smile. Elsie's heart thuds in her chest as she considers the possibility of what Gwen's mentioned. They all need their jobs certainly, and she feels badly for thinking, it but these women are younger than she and have no obligations, save providing for themselves; with a well-written character they can find a position in service at a big house. But she and Becky have little to spare as it is and there is no position in service for her. Elsie envisions being cast into the workhouse for certain if she loses her place.

Though young women scatter when they see Mrs. Thomas approach, Elsie remains. One look at Mrs. Thomas and Elsie knows the truth. The gossip to which she's been privy is true and her heart begins to race in her chest.

"Shall we talk in my office?"

* * *

"It was a difficult decision Elsie, make no mistake about it," Mrs. Thomas admits. "I shouldn't be telling this really … my son lost a great deal of money in an investment scheme. The hotel is the only thing of significant value that will be sufficient enough to pay off his debts. I just can't have my children … my grandchildren … cast into the workhouse if I can stop it from happening." There is a sadness in the woman's eyes, a brokenness in her voice that Elsie recognizes all too well.

"But what about you? How will you live?"

"After all of his debts are paid, there will be a little left. We should be able to live modestly whilst Edward gets back on his feet."

"So, you'll be moving then?"

"Yes. I'll be moving to Manchester at the end of the month. I have assurances that you'll be kept on Elsie. I know that you need your position and you do excellent work."

"And the new owner?"

"He will take possession next week. I doubt he will be here often as his base is in London, but he's stayed here several times when on business and is wishing to expand his holdings. A Mr. Richard Carlisle."

TBC ...


End file.
